On May 7, 2021, I rang a shiny bell on the wall of MSK’s radiotherapy unit, and nurses, doctors, and technicians stood in their doorways applauding. Then I went to my car and wept.
Many hospitals have bells like that one, for patients to ring on the last day of treatment. You can imagine that watching a corridor fill with smiling, applauding strangers is overwhelming, and some tears were for that.
But mostly I wept because I lost what I'd been holding on to. My turn was over. The ball was back in cancer’s court.
That ball has been volleyed a few times now. I’m about to get the last of my six rounds of Pluvicto. I know it’s working—Pluvicto is costly, and much in demand, and not very healthful, so patient progress is continually monitored. Still, brass bell or not, I’m fairly certain that after the final infusion it’ll be tears all over again. My turn will again have ended, and I’ll be waiting for that next move.
I’ve responded to the drug superbly. The scans show dead and dying cancer cells—a cancer massacre. But if you think the villain is dead, you need to watch more movies. Cancer is never without a Plan B. Cancer cells mutate wildly, and that diversity is its recipe for survival. There will always be a strain that shrugs off your current treatment, and when the other cells die it’s still around.
As far as scans go, tumors smaller than a few million cells are invisible. Believe it: there’s an insurgent population somewhere that’s alive and growing. When it swells enough we’ll see my PSA rise, and then it will be time to try something else.
I’ve been thinking of the baritone saxophonist Nick Brignola. He was a scary-ass head-cutter. Notes flew from his big horn like a firehose. At jams he aimed to outplay anyone near, and he expected others to gunsling back.
After Brignola learned he had terminal cancer (he died Feb. 8, 2002, at 65) he threw gas on the fire, recording and performing like mad—an intense player redoubling in intensity.
I’m claiming a bit of Nick’s fire to kindle my poetry writing. Like him, I'm on a tight schedule.
I hate feeling rushed—but also, like Nick, I hate being beaten.
My husband is on this same journey, and I've been grateful to read your honest words about how you feel dealing with this beast. It helps me to better understand how he is feeling, as opposed to how I am feeling. So thank you for sharing your feelings. Here's hoping that you have some time in remission and are able to keep cancer out of the foreground for some moments of that time.
Thank you Ben, you're a gift to many