One Year Ago

It was one year ago today that we first heard the "C" word.

I remember the moment clearly. I remember sitting on that couch in that little room, with one hand on E.'s knee and the other hand rubbing my pregnant belly. I remember the second hand of the clock on the wall ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. I remember the look on the nurse's face. What was that look? Sympathy? Pity? Sadness? Uncomfortableness? I remember the doctor coming in and sitting on the chair across from us. I remember the nurse standing in the corner, holding a chart. I remember the doctor explaining what he saw, using words like mass and tumor. I remember my mind swimming, trying to comprehend what he was saying. I remember not hearing the word "cancer," thinking that if it wasn't said, it couldn't be. I remember not being able to take it any longer and finally asking if it was cancer they were talking about. There I said it, I used the word. I remember once the doctor said "definitely," that things went a little hazy. I remember hearing bit and pieces of what he said from there, but how most of his words jumbled together much like the adults on Charlie Brown cartoons. I remember how certain words were clear though . . . words like cancer, mass, cancer, tumor, cancer, surgery, cancer, serious, cancer. I remember feeling a pit in my stomach. I remember the lump in my throat growing and growing until I felt like I couldn't talk anymore. I remember the tears filling in my eyes and my vision getting blurrier and blurrier, until those tears spilled down my cheeks. I remember looking at E. with a look of horror and dread. I remember how silent and stoic E. was. I remember how E. was still feeling the effects of the sedation and kept asking me "It's not good, is it?" I remember trying to rub that pit out of my stomach and swallow that lump in my throat away. I remember gripping the steering wheel tight and trying to blink away the tears. I remember that every time I looked at E., that pit, that lump and those tears would all come right back.

It was one year ago today that I had to call E.'s work and explain that he wouldn't be returning to work for awhile.

I remember going in the hallway at the lab, so E. wouldn't see me cry. I remember trying to be professional and factual. I remember my voice cracking and squeaking. I remember feeling like I needed to be strong, for E. and for me. I remember hanging up the phone and sobbing, just sobbing.

It was one year ago today that we began this cancer journey.

I remember wiping away the tears and preparing for the battle. I remember researching and researching esophageal cancer on the internet until the wee hours of the morning. I remember becoming more and more upset with each dismal statistic I read. I remember realizing that Google is not always your friend. I remember deciding to no longer dwell on the negative but rather, focus on the positive. I remember creating our binder to keep track of everything that was happening (we're now on volume 5 or 6 I think). I remember titling the cover, "EWH vs. EC." I remember thinking it was a war, and E. was going to win.

Here we are, one year later.

E. is doing well. He is eating and gaining weight, although he is worried about gaining too much fat and not enough muscle. His eyelashes and eyebrows are growing back. He's even sporting a handsome goatee. His coloring is good, his energy level is improving and he is as ornery as ever. The one residual side effect that is very bothersome for him is the neuropathy/numbness in his hands and feet. His hands and feet typically feel like they are asleep. He is constantly rubbing or moving his hands in an effort to try to generate some feeling. They also get random cramps. Because he can't feel, he often doesn't realize how hard or soft he is gripping something. This results in frequently dropped objects. If he's on his feet a lot or walking for a bit, the bottoms of his feet get tingling and numb, yet he can feel every pebble and rock. It is a rather bizarre phenomenon . . . numb, yet super-sensitive at the same time. We are told that this side effect is not uncommon and can take up to 18 months to resolve, but for some people, it never completely goes away.

E. is looking towards the future. He is collecting information as to his work situation . . . medical retirement . . . retiring early with a penalty . . . buying some years to have a full retirement . . . returning to work full-time . . . returning to work part-time. There are so many variables and options to consider. I anticipate that decision coming shortly. And, of course, we have the follow-up appointments at MD Anderson in Houston at the end of March. We are hoping and praying for continued good news.

It's been pretty quiet around here, which isn't necessarily a bad thing . . . but we'd love to hear from you all.

S.