Chemo # 4 - Dialed In

We headed to MN Oncology this morning for chemo round #4. These car rides bring anxiety for both of us but we did our best to chit chat through the noise of knowing where this drive was taking us. We have become familiar with the routine once we arrive and after the initial port blood draw, we were brought back again for Phillip's vitals. Given that Phillip had lost nine pounds the week of the 14th, we were anxious to see his current weight. The scale confirmed he has gained four of those pounds back. We will take that as a win to start the morning!

When Dr. Tatineni came into our room we were eager to discuss recent developments. Phillip summarized our time at the Mayo (purposely skipping over the part where we couldn't find it, despite it being attached to our hotel) and the progress the Mayo showed us from the CT scan while at the Mayo. At Phillip's first CT and PET prior to any treatment, it was confirmed his liver was six times larger than normal, so swollen with tumors that it hoarded his entire abdominal cavity, leaving minimal room for other integral organs. But on July 10th, the Mayo team showed us the new scan and his liver had clearly shrunk. Knowing this scan was only after two full chemo rounds and at the beginning of the third, it was positive indication of a great response. Take that, cancer!

As I mentioned in the previous post, I have been very concerned about the spread to other areas, specifically, his peritoneum. Despite knowing full well that googling never leads anywhere good, I couldn’t stop myself over the past two weeks. The grim possibilities I found began to take hold of me, and the worry settled in deeper than I’d like to admit. Phillip probably should put parental settings on my internet browser for everyone's sanity. Speaking with Dr. Tatineni was helpful for my mindset as she assured us Phillip is on the most aggressive chemo and he is responding well. The FOLFOX will battle the peritoneum spread as well. Our game plan moving forward is to continue on FOLFOX until his body cannot tolerate it anymore. Lucky for Phillip, he married me...and I have researched holistic approaches to combat side-effects of FOLFOX and plan to thoroughly discuss supplemental regimens with the Integrative Oncologist at the Mayo in September. Knowledge is power and I am refusing to let cancer have the upper-hand.

Dr. Tatineni also talked with us about the second line of defense, and it’s reassuring to know we have one. When someone is diagnosed with cancer, certain biomarkers can be identified that help guide treatment decisions. Many immunotherapy options target specific cell mutations, but in Phillip’s case, none of those mutations are present. The upside? We already know what his body is likely to respond to next. That treatment is waiting in the bullpen while FOLFOX continues to do its job, obliterating everything it can, for as long as it can.

Phillip's chemo infusions went so well today. Sure, we are the youngest people in the Infusion Suite, but while everyone else was napping with pillows and blankets, Phillip was on back-to-back Concur calls and didn't skip a beat. To think, this is the toughest chemo cocktail that exists - so strong that the nurse has to wear a smock and surgical gloves when administering it to his pump - and here Phillip is talking deals and making jokes while his body is infused. It is truly unreal and a testament to Phillip's mindset and strength. He is such an inspiration and I love him so much for his courage.

While at the Mayo visit, they also encouraged Phillip to begin "icing" on treatment days. The Oxaliplatin infusion is notorious for triggering neuropathy as a side-effect. The idea behind "icing" is that it reduces the size of blood vessels to extremities, which minimizes the drug reaching these areas. We bought a set of "mittens" and "socks" to put in the freezer and bring on chemo days. Last night, I put the mittens in the freezer in anticipation for today. Much to my surprise, when we were ready to begin icing today, I had mistakenly frozen the socks instead. This resulted in Phillip looking like a sad ventriloquist with sock puppets on his hands. Whoops.

This past week, Phillip and I both celebrated our birthdays. I get to live the cougar life for a few days until his birthday on the 22nd evens the score. We recently decided to lease a boat slip on Lake Minnetonka, and for his birthday, we dressed up and cruised the lake to CoV for a family dinner. (Side note: Phillip did rope me into some surprise dock work beforehand—cue the table saws and drills.). The evening was perfect. Lenie laughed as the boat hit waves and splashed her in the face, and Phillip just soaked it all in, fully at peace in his happy place. It was one of those beautiful, golden-summer moments I wish I could bottle.

And then, like the sneaky bastard it is, the reality of our situation crept back in and whispered, “I’m still here.” While I would not wish this situation on anyone, I can't help but feel fortunate that we have been rattled to remember we are not invincible. We do not know how much time we all have, but this cancer diagnosis is a reminder. It’s as if a veil has lifted. What used to feel ordinary now feels breathtaking. Simple moments, like laughing in the kitchen, holding hands, watching Lenie’s face light up, suddenly shimmer with meaning. I cry often, not from sadness, but from awe. We hug more. Love harder. Smile wider. And fiercely protect our time together.

In the midst of all this, I’ve been searching for words to hold on to, I recently heard a quote that I have held close, "You never know how strong you are, until strong is all you can be." I carry that with me every day, because right now, there is no other option.