In January 20, 2018, I was diagnosed with Metastatic Breast Cancer.  By mid-May my husband and I had both retired and moved to what had been our summer home on an island off Portland, Maine.

Now in July 2019 I am relaxing into writing my cancer reflections from the physical, emotional, relational and spiritual fronts of living into dying. As with my sharing in Part I written in 2017, I write these explorations so that others might know what I am learning as I live further into my living into my dying.

It wasn’t until a month after my diagnosis that I asked my oncologist what stage cancer I have. I had researched stages but had not connected the dots that metastatic is Stage 4 cancer. For me understanding the complexity of having metastatic cancer is a gradual awakening.

“Metastatic,” as most people do not know means “beyond stasis”; in other words, the medications I take will be chasing cancer cells for the remainder of my life. My primary breast cancer was Stage 1. I had a lumpectomy and an excellent prognosis–operation, radiation, very low probability of returning cancer.

This time cancer cells are in my bones. Cells can travel to the bones, liver, brain, anywhere they choose; eventually the game will be up. Bone metastases are the most hopeful starting point. I am thankful that my present medications are still working according to my scans taken in June. My oncologist tells me I have “very little cancer.” PET scans or a combination of CT scans and bone scans are the principal ways we can know where the cells are active since they light up these places. My next scans are in November.

Those are the physical facts–other than the considerable pain which can surface in my joints wherever it chooses plus other side effects which blindside me. Just as I think I know what to expect, I am surprised by a new and unexpected side effect, putting me on notice that I am not in control.

However, over this past year I have been able to track what is happening–the first six months I plowed through all the side effects except the fatigue which drove me to rest on the bed for an hour at a time. We had to move on moving day, a daunting challenge which we completed by keeping on keeping on until the last counter was wiped down and the front door closed. I have begun to acclimate to expecting the unexpected. Since I cannot anticipate what will happen next, I am learning to cope with what is happening from moment-to-moment in my physical being. As I have been told my palliative care doctor: Joy, this is your life now.

Future posts on the emotional, relational and spiritual fronts.

Addendum: FYI, As I return to posting after a post-Trump election hiatus, I am learning more WordPress.com operational details that I expect will turn up in my posts. More to come.