Counting Blessings, One by One

March 11, 2011: We are up bright and early this morning to begin our day of fact-finding and next steps. We all--Mom, Dean, Linds, and I--express nervousness at the unknown fears that lie ahead and a sincere desire to move forward, wherever that may take us. I pray for Dr. Bradley. Is his heart heavy as he begins this busy day? Janessa goes to her sweet friend's house because it is too early to go to the school. I write a note for Carol's mom, to let her know our week's journey, and J is hesitant to give it to her. "She'll cry," she says, and I feel she's right. Linds is driving and admits she longs to stay on the freeway and drive all the way to St. George. Escape...not really an option, but oh, we would do it in a heartbeat. We arrive at the clinic with time to spare and sit only a few minutes in the waiting room--long minutes we try to pass with chit-chat. Dr. B's nurse calls my name and I tell her I'm bringing my crew along. We walk down the long hall to the only room I've been in during my three visits, and it feels like it belongs to me now. We sit on edge, waiting, waiting, for news that will either swipe at our defenses or pour salve on our broken hearts. Dr. Bradley comes in and smiles. Without delay, he launches into the words we gobble up like baby birds:
As we learned yesterday from Dr. Robison, what we believe was the entry point on top of my head does not now contain melanoma cells, thanks to the magnificent fighting machine of the human body. The scans and tests I've had this week are meant to uncover overactive cells in my body. Obviously, the scans show a huge mass of these cells in my neck, but much more of a mystery is some sign of them in my right FOOT. Dr. B admits this is strange. Since melanoma tends to move downward from the entry site, this would indicate it has moved from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. For a moment, I am frozen with fear. All week, I have had nightmares of doctors pouring over my scan results with their red marking pens, circling blotch after blotch of tumors, like a plate riddled with bullet holes. Absurd, I know, but the main reason I've been nauseous with worry. Dr. B says that he has already made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon/bone cancer specialist for next Tuesday to have my foot checked out. "It could be anything," he says, calmly, "such as arthritis, an old injury or infection, or melanoma." Further examination and evaluation will solve the mystery.
The second step is to take out the lymph nodes and suspect mass in my neck, so surgery is planned for next Thursday, St. Patrick's Day. It's extensive--Dr. B will lift up nerves and search under muscle to find and excise all the bad guys. There is a chance of paralysis in my face, loss of muscle movement in my shoulder and arm, nerve damage. I listen as if he is reading me the back of an aspirin bottle. I will be in the hospital two days, perhaps, enough time to allow the blood underneath the skin to drain. Sounds delightful.
Third step is a visit to a well-known oncologist at the Huntsman Cancer Center who will refer me to a trial or study. We joke about going to clinics in Boston or Texas or even New York, but I just want to stay home.
Then we get down to the nitty-gritty. Even after my neck surgery, will I be cured? Will I be in remission? There is one more test to take right away, and that is a blood test to determine if there are "markers" that would indicate microscopic spots that the scans did not detect--spots that would mean melanoma has spread. If those markers come up in the test, the answer is simple--we wait three to six months for the baby-spots to grow into mean-monster-spots and then we get them cut out, too. Melanoma is not cured by radiation or chemo. It can only be killed by complete surgical annihilation. Why wait so long? To see what has grown in the time we've been worrying and agonizing over the unpredictable and invisible. More scanning. More tests. More surgeries. Maybe every three to six months for...well, for forever.
But I like what Dr. B says about this amazing body God created. He says that right now, I have KILLER CELLS that are attacking the mass in my neck relentlessly, every day, every minute, fighting, fighting, fighting. Once that mass is removed, those little soldiers will race off to attack other bad guys, especially those little microscopic things that may be lurking in the wings. That's why it's important to get that big neck lump out of here--gone, kaput--so those killer cells can do the rest of their duty. Amazing.
We leave the office dry-eyed, a tender mercy in itself because we have cried buckets of tears in the past nine days. There is a small glimmer of hope in our hearts because of the beautiful emptiness of those scan results. I wait to get my blood drawn again for the "marker" test. They take two tubes. Both of my arms are now bruised from needles.
We meet an old friend as we're leaving. His wife is battling breast cancer, ongoing since last May. Compassion wells within me that I've never felt before. I am so sorry, so sad. We wish each other well and say we'll pray for each other. I will put her on my prayer list tonight.
Mom asks if I just want to go home, but I think I'm actually hungry. Another blessing. We have a delicious breakfast and I call both Aaron and Chelsea to tell them the latest news. We are hesitantly hopeful.
Later, as I'm napping (again), the phone rings. I can't quite rouse myself to answer it, so let the machine take a message. It's hard to fall into a deep sleep. I keep waking myself up, going over Dr. B's words...so positive, so clear, so full of hope.
Finally, I play back the phone message. It is Dr. B's nurse. "Lisa, we just got the results back from your lab tests and we wanted you to know that they came back normal. Take care. Bye." Results. Lab tests. Normal. Normal. NORMAL. NO MARKERS. I go from room to room in my house, relaying the news like a town crier. Mom and I collapse into sobs. It is a miracle. A MIRACLE. Prayers have been answered. More prayers of gratitude are whispered.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
One of the best good news/good days...ever...