Again ... How Do We Go On?

[MDK]

Somewhere in my past posts I asked how do you go on? It was right after my oncologist told me that I was currently incurable! This would have been last September when - after my surgery, they found no lymph nodes that contained cancer cells and all was wonderful - but then then my oncologist did my first set of baselines scans and found a spot on my liver and suspicious, small nodes in my lungs (jury is still out on exactly what those nodes are).

Responding well to my new Xeloda/Avastin treatment - liver tumor shrank, lung nodes stable. This from my first CT scan in early December after treatment began.

Since Christmas I have been very depressed. I will be 58 this year, that is not young yet I still can't believe I am coming to the end. I know I have some time - my faith seems to have failed me.

Any words of encouragement? I sure could use them.

Marianne

[TXLiz]

I am sorry to hear you are in such a difficult spot. I don't know how helpful I will be, but I just wanted you to know I read your post and recognize the despair and pain you are feeling. Hugs and prayers to you. If your faith is Christian, know He will never leave you. It feels like He does, but He is always there for us. If you aren't Christian and I have assumed wrong, please disregard the last part and accept my apologies. I lean heavily on the Lord and His promises of Eternal Life daily. The tricky part is letting go of this life with grace and dignity, for me. We don't know the future, though. Anything is possible for any of us. Things can change positively for you again, or at least become stable. One day at a time, my friend.

[teri3]

Hi Marianne. I too will be 58 next year but I don't feel old and in no way am I ready to give up the fight. Sounds like this round is working for you....don't lose the faith maintain the fight. There are other treatments if this doesn't work and there are constantly new treatments coming up. Lots of trials with good responses.
Hugs
Teri

[recruiter]

I understand how you feel.

I am treading water, with a rectal tumor that has responded nicely to treatment - but not nicely enough to allow removal with the margins necessary to make a recurrence anything less than a certainty. Meanwhile, I have lung mets that are shrinking or stable because I let the cancer get away from me - the reason is in the next paragraph.

I am 56 years old, and for the last 20 years of my life I was the caregiver for my Mom, the most significant person in my life. My diagnosis, last Jan. 29, started her on a health spiral - she took the news of my cancer MUCH worse than her strokes and heart issues - that ended with her passing on May 13, so I feel to a degree like my tumor cost me both my best friend and my health. Many have the times been since those initial dark days that I've been fine with the end being at hand, if that's His will.

But then I remember Mom - how desperately she wanted me to push this fight as far as it will go. And I remember the one thing in my life I hated more than anything else - to disappoint her. Everything that's good in me is her; the bad is me. I have no regrets about choosing Mom's care over my own. I would do it the same.

So, I owe her the fight. I press on. Xeloda and Avastin. I am still in good enough shape to work, although some days it wears me out, which is great because I'm blessed with wonderful health insurance.

That's what I promised Mom, before I lost her. And that's what I will deliver, until I hold her hand again.

[jortego128]

But then I remember Mom - how desperately she wanted me to push this fight as far as it will go. And I remember the one thing in my life I hated more than anything else - to disappoint her. Everything that's good in me is her; the bad is me. I have no regrets about choosing Mom's care over my own. I would do it the same.

So, I owe her the fight. I press on. Xeloda and Avastin. I am still in good enough shape to work, although some days it wears me out, which is great because I'm blessed with wonderful health insurance.

That's what I promised Mom, before I lost her. And that's what I will deliver, until I hold her hand again.

Thats beautiful man. I lost my mom this year after a brief, 10 month battle with colon cancer. She had just turned 58 a month before she left us. Despite the fact that I have a wife and two precious children, understand that I would have traded places in an instant if I could have. That is how much I loved my mom. News of her dx and prognosis hit me like a speeding train, and the following 10 months were akin to me being caught underneath and dragged, desperately trying to to grab and cling to anything in order to save her. Her passing for me was like finally falling out behind the rear of the train, still alive but completely broken and feeling as if I was dead.

Im sorry for your loss and what you are going through, but I know for certain your mom wants you to fight for yourself as much as you did for her. Do it for her, and for everyone else who loves you.

[DarknessEmbraced]

I'm sorry you're going through such a rough time!*hugs* I hope things get better soon!

[BeansMama]

I am so sorry you find yourself in this mindset as well. I wish there was an easy answer. All I can really say is one day at a time.

Close your eyes and feel the hands of all of us supporting you through your tough times.

As always please feel free to PM me, and if you need more immediate contact I have no problem setting something up.

Keeping you in my prayers.
Beans

[Ron50]

I was 48 when dxed with an aggressive stage 3 tumour into six of 13 nodes. My surgeon was an old and experienced veteran of many cancer surgeries. He predicted that I had no more than three years and to get out and do the things I wanted to do whilst I could. Of course I totally ignored him and went back to work about a quarter of the way through chemo. The twenty second of this month I reach the end of year 19 of survival and start year 20. I turn 67 this year and I am still working. Life does not always turn out the way we envision it. Ron.

[recruiter]

But then I remember Mom - how desperately she wanted me to push this fight as far as it will go. And I remember the one thing in my life I hated more than anything else - to disappoint her. Everything that's good in me is her; the bad is me. I have no regrets about choosing Mom's care over my own. I would do it the same.

So, I owe her the fight. I press on. Xeloda and Avastin. I am still in good enough shape to work, although some days it wears me out, which is great because I'm blessed with wonderful health insurance.

That's what I promised Mom, before I lost her. And that's what I will deliver, until I hold her hand again.

Thats beautiful man. I lost my mom this year after a brief, 10 month battle with colon cancer. She had just turned 58 a month before she left us. Despite the fact that I have a wife and two precious children, understand that I would have traded places in an instant if I could have. That is how much I loved my mom. News of her dx and prognosis hit me like a speeding train, and the following 10 months were akin to me being caught underneath and dragged, desperately trying to to grab and cling to anything in order to save her. Her passing for me was like finally falling out behind the rear of the train, still alive but completely broken and feeling as if I was dead.

Im sorry for your loss and what you are going through, but I know for certain your mom wants you to fight for yourself as much as you did for her. Do it for her, and for everyone else who loves you.

I am sorry for your loss as well. The train analogy is a good one, as I spent the last six months of last year feeling like life was just hurtling by, with decisions to make and no time to contemplate them, with the worst moment deciding to put Mom in hospice. As a dear friend told me at my Mom's funeral, "The problem we both face is that we were raised by the best mothers God could bless this Earth with."

So the only thing to do is fight. I refuse to stop planning for the future, because Mom would want it that way and Ron is right above. We don't know how our story ends, and neither do the doctors, from the positive ones to the dour ones. Only God does. I had bought us a new home to renovate - for accessibility issues - before she died and I'm moving into it this month without her.

I guess in a nutshell, I go on because it's the right thing to do. Doesn't mean it is easy.