The expected lifespan of Lenny
The array of appointments that took over my life during the first month or two after my Stage 4 diagnosis focused mainly on keeping me comfortable. My prognosis was never mentioned, I didn't ask and the docs never offered the information. I read a lot about my particular condition on a handful of reputable websites but it was difficult to connect the numbers to me. I read about women who had the exact same cancer as me who had passed within 12 months, and I read about those who were still going strong 7 years after diagnosis. The variants in treatments among those I read about were notable, some had chemo, others didn't. Some took Tamoxifen as a hormone blocker some took Arimidex. No 2 women were the same, and although to the untrained and uninformed eye their cancers appeared identical, their reactions and outcomes to their treatments weren't. This was perhaps one of the most important things I had to get my head around in the early days. It was virtually impossible to predict my future in any detail.
So I remained ignorant.
I remained ignorant until the day I had an appointment with The Donky that is.
It began pretty much the same as every other oncology appointment. My weight was taken as I squeezed my eyes shut and poked both fingers into my ears to avoid finding this information out, followed by a quick discussion about how I felt (how I FELT? Oh spiffing thanks for asking, doc). There were enquiries about whether I felt any new pains, was I eating properly, did I still smoke? Yes to the first two and a Hell Yes to the last one. Well, it wasnt going to kill me, was it? A quick look at recent scans even though they'd been examined in depth at the last appointment and I'd not had a scan since and then it came.......
"I think it's time we looked at your prognosis" says Donky.
"Uuuuhm" says I, looking at my shoes.
I didn't hear very much after this, as one tends not to pay much attention when one is uninterested in what's being said, but unfortunately I did catch 'median of 4 years'.
Against my best judgement I asked The Donky to elaborate.
What this basically means is that the average lifespan following the time of Stage 4 diagnosis, which in my case, was with one singular area of bone metastasis, was 4 years. Some would be lower on this scale therefore copping it earlier and some would be higher and live to see Brexit.
It is EXTREMELY difficult after hearing those words to imagine yourself living beyond 4 years. The two words 'four years' are all that register, at least initially. I believe it's human nature to enter some kind of parallel universe where all one is capable of is focusing on the most shocking part of a statement and disregarding the rest.
Luckily, common sense returned at some point and I was able to process the conversation in its entirety, though those two words still haunt me.
When I discussed this conversation later with family and friends there were several reactions, the most prevalent being 'That's not so bad, you can do a lot in 4 years'. Not the best of statements to make to someone standing in my somewhat worn out shoes.
How would they feel, truly feel, if at the age of 48 they'd just been told in not so many words that they have, if they're lucky, 4 years left - but that's tickety boo because 4 years is plenty of time? Not particularly positive I would imagine.
But - it is what it is, and whatever time I had left I was now faced with the massive question of how on earth would I would deal with this information?
I could see 1 more Christmas or I could see 5/6/7 more. The Spring blossom appearing on the trees outside my lounge window has always been one of my all time favourite things to see - how many more blossoms were left for me? Would I reach my half century birthday? These are all things that crossed my mind in the weeks immediately following my diagnosis and for some time afterwards, and they upset me on a daily basis. I tried my very best to appear upbeat when speaking with family and friends when they asked how I was coping, but inside I was a messed up, wrung out wreck. I cried daily. I went over and over aspects of my life feeling bitter at myself for doing many of the things the way I had, wishing hard that time could be reversed. I blamed myself for the mess I was in now.
The saving grace during this time was of course the lovely Lola, but I found that I was unable to relax and enjoy her the way I wanted to. I agonised over and over about what would happen to her when my time came. I still do. If she was to pass before me (unlikely, she is a happy, healthy 7/8 year old cat, she has years left in her) I would lose my purpose and it would break me. The alternative of course is my reaching a stage where I'm no longer able to care for her properly. I have, of course ensured she has a happy, loving home in which to go to, but I would have to say my goodbyes still, and I can't help but worry that she will in some way pine. We have a very special bond of which I've never experienced before with an animal.
These were trying times.
For now, I have to try hard to focus on the positives. Lola is with me, happy, healthy and running amok at 3am on the dot every single day, chasing her toys around the place and making me smile. Aside from Lenny, I'm relatively healthy - my liver, lungs, kidneys and heart are all chugging along nicely, thank you very much. I am the healthiest terminally ill person I know !!
But, Lenny is still living here, his presence forever making itself known.
And life goes on.........
The array of appointments that took over my life during the first month or two after my Stage 4 diagnosis focused mainly on keeping me comfortable. My prognosis was never mentioned, I didn't ask and the docs never offered the information. I read a lot about my particular condition on a handful of reputable websites but it was difficult to connect the numbers to me. I read about women who had the exact same cancer as me who had passed within 12 months, and I read about those who were still going strong 7 years after diagnosis. The variants in treatments among those I read about were notable, some had chemo, others didn't. Some took Tamoxifen as a hormone blocker some took Arimidex. No 2 women were the same, and although to the untrained and uninformed eye their cancers appeared identical, their reactions and outcomes to their treatments weren't. This was perhaps one of the most important things I had to get my head around in the early days. It was virtually impossible to predict my future in any detail.
So I remained ignorant.
I remained ignorant until the day I had an appointment with The Donky that is.
It began pretty much the same as every other oncology appointment. My weight was taken as I squeezed my eyes shut and poked both fingers into my ears to avoid finding this information out, followed by a quick discussion about how I felt (how I FELT? Oh spiffing thanks for asking, doc). There were enquiries about whether I felt any new pains, was I eating properly, did I still smoke? Yes to the first two and a Hell Yes to the last one. Well, it wasnt going to kill me, was it? A quick look at recent scans even though they'd been examined in depth at the last appointment and I'd not had a scan since and then it came.......
"I think it's time we looked at your prognosis" says Donky.
"Uuuuhm" says I, looking at my shoes.
I didn't hear very much after this, as one tends not to pay much attention when one is uninterested in what's being said, but unfortunately I did catch 'median of 4 years'.
Against my best judgement I asked The Donky to elaborate.
What this basically means is that the average lifespan following the time of Stage 4 diagnosis, which in my case, was with one singular area of bone metastasis, was 4 years. Some would be lower on this scale therefore copping it earlier and some would be higher and live to see Brexit.
It is EXTREMELY difficult after hearing those words to imagine yourself living beyond 4 years. The two words 'four years' are all that register, at least initially. I believe it's human nature to enter some kind of parallel universe where all one is capable of is focusing on the most shocking part of a statement and disregarding the rest.
Luckily, common sense returned at some point and I was able to process the conversation in its entirety, though those two words still haunt me.
When I discussed this conversation later with family and friends there were several reactions, the most prevalent being 'That's not so bad, you can do a lot in 4 years'. Not the best of statements to make to someone standing in my somewhat worn out shoes.
How would they feel, truly feel, if at the age of 48 they'd just been told in not so many words that they have, if they're lucky, 4 years left - but that's tickety boo because 4 years is plenty of time? Not particularly positive I would imagine.
But - it is what it is, and whatever time I had left I was now faced with the massive question of how on earth would I would deal with this information?
I could see 1 more Christmas or I could see 5/6/7 more. The Spring blossom appearing on the trees outside my lounge window has always been one of my all time favourite things to see - how many more blossoms were left for me? Would I reach my half century birthday? These are all things that crossed my mind in the weeks immediately following my diagnosis and for some time afterwards, and they upset me on a daily basis. I tried my very best to appear upbeat when speaking with family and friends when they asked how I was coping, but inside I was a messed up, wrung out wreck. I cried daily. I went over and over aspects of my life feeling bitter at myself for doing many of the things the way I had, wishing hard that time could be reversed. I blamed myself for the mess I was in now.
The saving grace during this time was of course the lovely Lola, but I found that I was unable to relax and enjoy her the way I wanted to. I agonised over and over about what would happen to her when my time came. I still do. If she was to pass before me (unlikely, she is a happy, healthy 7/8 year old cat, she has years left in her) I would lose my purpose and it would break me. The alternative of course is my reaching a stage where I'm no longer able to care for her properly. I have, of course ensured she has a happy, loving home in which to go to, but I would have to say my goodbyes still, and I can't help but worry that she will in some way pine. We have a very special bond of which I've never experienced before with an animal.
These were trying times.
For now, I have to try hard to focus on the positives. Lola is with me, happy, healthy and running amok at 3am on the dot every single day, chasing her toys around the place and making me smile. Aside from Lenny, I'm relatively healthy - my liver, lungs, kidneys and heart are all chugging along nicely, thank you very much. I am the healthiest terminally ill person I know !!
But, Lenny is still living here, his presence forever making itself known.
And life goes on.........
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