Name:
Location: one hour from Suffolk, Rockingham, and Scarborough, United States

I'm one of the co-authors of Point of Hopes, Point of Dreams, and The Armor of Light (which, contrary to some reviews is NOT a Points novel). Proud member of CoastLine SF, Piscataqua Obedience Club, and admin for Horseboard.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Oh, bother.

I got a phone call from my radiation oncologist up at Dartmouth-Hitchcock last night, saying that the scan I had done on Friday had come back "slightly positive." Which means there's reason to think there's been a little bit of tumor re-growth.

Yeesh.

The good news, and it truly is, that the tumor is "an order of magnitude smaller" than it was when we first treated it; that it has moved off the brain stem, it has shrunk so much; and because it is no longer on the brain stem, the radiosurgery this time can use the full 20 grays of radiation rather than the more conservative 16 grays it received at the center, 12 at the periphery. There is no sign of edema or vascularization. And if it is tumor re-growth, this is the time to hit it. And I absolutely agree with that.

So we're going to do another radiosurgery. Which is quite a fascinating procedure, the only thing I dislike about it is that I have to take steroids afterwords, and decadron really truly sucks. I know, I know, it's better than edema, but the side effects, for me at least, were lousy. Ah, well, I'll only be on it for a couple of weeks probably, as opposed to the month and a half I was on them last year!

But golly gee, I had hoped 2005 would be a wonderfully boring year! My friend Victoria suggested that 2005, for us, will simply begin February 1. A new leaf, a new year, no more of this shit.

I believe very strong in the powers of anger and humor. Both are enormously powerful weapons in one's arsenal. And bless his heart, Richard (he of the alternate spelling for fru-fru), made me laugh out loud this morning with the following:

Best wishes, Lisa. Somewhere in this thread there is an allusion to MacBeth waiting to come out. I'm not sure if it's

Out, out, damned spot.
Or something along the lines of

Tumorrow and tumorrow and tumorrow . . .

but it's in there somewhere. If I wasn't half asleep, I'd find it. But my alarm clock tells me that it's time to step into tights and sashay through the snow to a lifetime first: a step aerobics class. I'm not sure what evil deity possessed me long enough to think that this might be a good idea, but if there is not at least one spandex-clad cutie be-bopping her way to tighter buns alongside me, I may just turn around and go back to bed.

Tell you doctor that we are expecting a clean bill of health when he's done mucking about in there. In an earlier, more barbaric period when my mother underwent extensive brain surgery for a tumor, they just took stuff out by hand and then closed one up and took an x-ray or two. She would (PhD in hand) proudly report back afterwards, tapping her skull:

"There's nothing up there at all, and I have the pictures and a neurosurgeon's testimony to prove it."

Thanks, Richard, I needed that!

My friends on Horseboard are good at keeping me in stitches... and the nice thing about radiosurgery is that those are the only stitches I'll have!

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