Ellen's Last Day

Hi Friends,
It has been a few days since I wrote, and much has happened. Wednesday, Catherine, Julie and I went up to Sunnybrook for Ellen's last day of chemo, (which she started on August 9). It was a big day for me to go and spend 6 hours up with her, and I felt tired after but it was so worth it. Ellen had a horrible morning: her surgeon, who, as far as I can tell could not care less about what he says and how he says it, told her some scary things at 8:00 am. What Ellen heard him say is that they were going to cancel her last CT scan which should never have been ordered, that they've done all they can and that ovarian cancer is hard to treat. Now go have your last chemo. She was destroyed and cried all morning. By the time we arrived (about noon) she had finally fallen asleep so we first had lunch with her husband Gary. After lunch we each took a turn with her (only one visitor at a time), then I spent much of the remainder of the afternoon with her, trying to pull up her spirits. Mostly, I told her stories of insensitive things doctors had said to me about recurrence that made her feel better. We started laughing with some dark humor (we make each other laugh uncontrollably sometimes) and things looked up. Then, for the first time in her treatment, she had an allergic reaction to a chemo drug. Three doctors and two nurses were suddenly around her and things were happening quickly. They got it under control and injected her with an antihistamine that made her stoned (one small benefit from the ordeal). With ovarian cancer, they inject some of the chemo drugs through an IV into the arm, and some through a port directly into her abdomen. At the end of the day, they get her to lie on each side, then tilted back, then upright, to get the drug to spread across the area. This feels incredibly low tech to me, but there it is. When she was finally done, they allowed us all to come into the room where she rang a bell she brought from home, and I joined in with mine. There were tears of happiness and hugs, but it was hampered with the echoes of what her doctor had said. She was certainly relieved to be done, but was it enough? I hope she is able to move on, put this behind her, and live as much as she can without doubt.
But that's the thing about cancer, doubt is always right next door.
I also saw my oncologist this week who was pleased as punch with my results. As always, however, thoughts and talk of recurrence start to creep in. Much of the discussion revolved around my possible participation in a few studies (one I have already completed this week). For the second study, the one he'd really like me to join, I would be required to take a diabetes medication twice a day which has been shown to slow the growth of tumors. There are over 4000 people in this study, and it is being run by the Cancer Research Institute at Queen's. The drawback (other than the fact that I would be taking a drug that I don't need), is that I would be on it for five years. I would be reminded every morning and night about the fact that I had--and still might have--cancer. If I still have cancer after my treatments, this drug might prolong my life by a year or two, but it would not cure it. (As my oncologist reminded me, if my cancer metastasizes, another round of chemo would be palliative but would not cure the cancer.) My feeling is that I'd rather live my life now, knowing how good my pathology report was, rather than be reminded of cancer everyday for the next five years. I realize the importance of participating in studies, but I'm already in three, and that's enough.
I'm still not sure when radiation starts, but I'll let you know when I hear.
Much love,
Kip