Again With the Cancer?

There are some things in life you never want to experience more than once. But it’ll make me stronger, right?

When you find out you have cancer, you freak out at first. Well, at least I did. It wasn’t an “all-hands-on-deck” freakout but rather a quiet, “oh shit, this may kill me” realization.

I find it a bit strange that when the initial thought that I could die sooner than I would have liked begins to settle into my brain and body, my only thoughts, regrets, and fears are how Rich, Dawson, and Botti will be affected by my passing. I try not to think too hard about it, and if I do, the emotions are just too much for me.

Yeah, we all die eventually; that’s not a revelation. But the moment you realize that your death could be so much sooner than you imagined, well, I don’t think you can ever adequately plan for that. The first time it happened in 2025, when I was told that I had lung cancer, my freak-out was huge and lasted for days.

So many thoughts…

I don’t want to die.

I’m not ready; I have more to do.

Dawson can’t lose his mom.

Rich will be alone.

And Botti, how will he know I didn’t leave him on purpose?

And of course, there was the self-blaming, because how can there be a crisis in my life without it?

I caused this by smoking. (Yes, true, but not helpful, right?)

I deserve this for something I did, I am sure

The world will be better without me

The battle between denial and blame raged on for nearly a week. It was a process I knew I had to find my way through to reach the truth on the other side.

I told myself I had lived a good life up to that point. It was a life filled with exploration, learning, loving, laughing, and living in ways I never thought I would. As I reminded myself of these things, I found myself feeling exceptionally grateful for the life I was able to live. And then, surprisingly, once I truly expressed and internalized the gratitude, I was able to start down the path of acceptance. If I were going to die, I told myself, I was going to find a way to be at peace about it. That is the only way I wanted to leave the world.

Over the next week or so, thoughts on what acceptance looked like ran through my mind. I was creating a framework of dying that would allow me to die with peace and wrap those who loved me in that peace as well. I would:

• Say the things that needed to be said to the people who needed to hear them.

• Spend time with those whom I love.

• Share as much of the wisdom I have been collecting for nearly 60 years with Dawson, with the time I had left

• Make sure Rich knew how very much I loved him

• Play and snuggle with Botti as much as I could

• Get my affairs in order so Rich and Dawson would not have so much to do

• Tell Rich my celebration of life song is “Who Wants to Live Forever” by Queen (because everyone needs a song to leave to)

• Spend as much time outdoors as possible

• Write and paint until I can’t

• Fill my heart with love and gratitude every day (within reason, of course, as some days will most surely suck)

In the end, I did not have to face my death. My lung cancer was localized to the tumor with no spread whatsoever. I had an upper right lobectomy, and with that, I was cancer-free.

I was ecstatic that my framework for death could be filed away, at least for the foreseeable future.

But shortly after my surgery recovery, my mom, who had been suffering from COPD for 8 years, passed away. It was sudden, but it was not unexpected. She was dying, although she did not admit that to anyone, especially herself. As the COPD began to take even more of her lung capacity and with it her independence, she became more angry and unhappy, and at the same time, her anxiety skyrocketed. She was difficult to be around, and she began to treat those who loved her with meanness. It was sad to experience, and there was nothing I could do.

And then she was gone, in a blaze of glory, leaving me and others who loved her in a wake of frustration and even anger. She refused to accept that she was dying, so she did not say her goodbyes, impart any wisdom, leave any wishes or plans, show us all the love she had in her heart for us, or spend quality time with us, simply enjoying our company.

Watching her slip away and fight her reality made a lasting impression on me, and I was extremely grateful I created my death framework, ensuring I would not go down the same path.

My new tumor. He looks scared. He should be!

Fast forward a year, and I found myself in the same “oh shit, I could die” place. On the second 6-month CT scan of my lungs, a new nodule was found.

From my journal shortly after digesting the news:

Well, my second 6-month CT scan shows a “solid nodule, 1.3 cm, in my lower right lobe.” What the fuck? It has only been a year, and there is another one?

I am trying not to freak out. I have 12 days until my appointment. Hopefully, I will see my results before that. I don’t want to lose any more lung. That will severely affect my day-to-day living. I am scared, and pretty sure I am going to die from this.

I am waiting for the doctor to release the scan results so I can see them for myself. Are the lymph nodes involved? It is smooth or just solid. My last one was spiculated.

WTF!!!!!!!

This shit is going to kill me.

Life has already been sure cruel and hard. Now, even more so. I always thought my karma was good, but that must not be true. No one gets out unharmed, that is for sure. For some, that harm is more than for others. All the walking, working out, and good eating did not matter. Here I am a year later with more possible cancer. Well, maybe I should not have smoked for 30 years.

I am strong, but I don’t want this at all. After a year of horrible sleep due to first the lung cancer surgery and then the twice-removed basal cell carcinoma on my chest, I may have to recover from yet another surgery. And lose significant lung function? I don’t want to die, but yeah, maybe that is a better option. Living at any cost is not living.

On a bright note, my Zeelool order is coming today.

I really don’t care if I die. I do care what happens to Dawson and to Rich. Watching me die will be difficult, and going through life without a mother will be so hard on Dawson. Rich will eventually be okay; he is a survivor, and he will have Botti to keep him company. But Dawson, I am not so sure. Let’s hope it does not come to that any time soon, but I have to be prepared in case it does.

This is so gut-wrenching for me. I am so tired of fighting each and every day of my life, and now I have to fight FOR my life as well, again? I am not sure I have it in me. The first lung cancer was hard enough, and I did all that I could to make it look like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. A huge, painful, scary deal. I am already so very tired, and now this. Why?

I was angry with my surgeon’s office for not posting the CT results. I needed to know whether the nodule was spiculated (as last time) and whether any lymph nodes were involved. The answers would have let me know if I was dealing with cancer or a benign nodule.

Luckily, the following Tuesday, I had a follow-up with my primary doctor, and I was fairly certain she would have my results. But that was four days away, and I had to deal with my thoughts in the meantime. So, I spent those days in the same denial, blame, and fear of dying space as last year, because, why not?

From my journal:

I am super sad today. I feel like I cannot make any plans or think of the future until I know what the nodule on my lung is.

I am painting with Anita today, but I don’t feel too inspired. Maybe I will when the time gets closer.

This just sucks, not knowing. I am going to try hard to put it out of my mind for a bit. We’ll see if I can achieve that.

I just want to know. I hate the waiting.

After days of worrying, I found out that the nodule was mildly spiculated, which probably meant cancer, but there were no lymph nodes involved, which probably meant no spread. But I did not know for sure. Luckily for me, a PET scan was scheduled for Friday, only three days away. I was excited to get the scan done so quickly, but I also knew I would not see the results until I saw my surgeon, Dr. B, in over a week. Again, my brain had far too much time to think.

From my journal, written during my PET scan:

I’m sitting in a cold room, waiting for the radioactive sugar water to spread through my body. My anxiety tells me it can feel the magical water flowing through my veins, and the other part of my brain that craves calm tells my anxiety to fuck off. I fear a fight may ensue.

As someone who may again have the unwanted guest of cancer camped out in her chest, I really don’t want my anxiety to win this fight, which it so frequently does. Instead, I want to find joy and peace in as many things as I can, because the idea of having lung cancer twice in one year is almost more than I can take.

Half an hour into my radioactive juice dispersant process, I discover a lever on the right side of my somewhat comfortable chair. Levers scream to be pulled, so when I did, the chair magically reclined, and a footrest settled itself under my calves, making for a much more comfortable wait.

A moment of joy in the midst of swirling anxiety.

After the scan was over, I settled into the long, week-plus wait, eagerly anticipating my scan results. I had been here before, but it was different this time. I found myself obsessed with the possibility that I was never going to beat this cancer thing since it came back so quickly. My mind raced ahead to my death nearly daily. I saw myself going through surgeries, chemo, radiation, and any other treatment they could throw at me. My future looked bleak, and I was spiraling into a depression. I dug deep and held on, waiting anxiously.

From my journal during those days:

I find myself thinking I cannot breathe, my heart rate is high, and other fucked up things, when, in reality, it’s my anxiety. I keep thinking that this nodule is going to kill me and that my body is full of cancer, and I have no hope. I am doing this to myself and cannot seem to stop. I distract myself with work or a task and get a moment’s rest from the chaotic thoughts of death, and then before I know it, they are back. I hope I am not like this until my appointment with Dr. B., which is a week from tomorrow. Eight days. I don’t want to feel like this for eight days.

Oh, and the tears. They hover just below the surface, and as they bubble up throughout the day, I push them back into the dark. Maybe I should let them see the light. Maybe I should feel the pain, the uncertainty, and the fear. Maybe. We’ll see.

And then, an anxiety-reducing miracle happened. From my journal:

My PET scan results were dropped into my portal yesterday, which surprised me. Now, I don’t have to wait until next Wednesday to know if my nodule is cancerous and whether it has spread. It is, and it has not. I am dealing with a very similar situation to last time, except I think the solution will be a wedge resection instead of a lobectomy. Well, at least I hope.

Now, I can stop catastrophizing about my imminent death, which I have been doing for days now.

Uncertainty is my kryptonite.

Now I know, and my anxiety has dropped about 80%.

But I still will need surgery, and I still don’t know where my lung function is. I have my PFT tomorrow, and maybe the results will arrive in my portal before next Wednesday. We’ll see. And then, the next question is whether I will have a wedge resection or something else. That, I know, I will need to wait for until my appointment with Dr. B.

But having the knowledge that cancer was localized did not erase all my worry. The time between seeing my PET scan results and my appointment with Dr. B. was 8 days, and my anxiety and worry ebbed and flowed for each of those days.

From my journal:

I am super sad today. Woke up this way. I think the closer my visit with Dr. B gets, the more real my new lung cancer situation feels to me.

I am hoping for a wedge resection and a more speedy recovery. I am hoping I can kayak and play pickleball this summer, but more importantly, I want to be able to walk my 2 miles in the morning sooner rather than later. I really love my morning walks.

I am assuming this is the reason for my sadness, but I don’t know for sure.

Since my surgeon scheduled a PFT (pulmonary function test), I had a feeling he would be leaning toward surgery to treat the nodule. It would be similar yet different from the lobectomy, and although I did not have an appointment with him for over a week, I started to mentally prepare myself for a big surgery. I was adamant that I didn’t want to lose any more lung function. Although my breathing felt “normal” once I recovered from my lobectomy, I knew that would not be the case the second time around. That terrified me more than the surgery itself. I was walking three miles a day, doing strength training, starting to play pickleball, and looking forward to finally getting back in the kayak. I did not want any of that to change. And most of all, I did not want to follow in my mom’s footsteps. I know I am not going to get COPD, but any further reduction in lung function would make me feel that I was going to have a tough time as she did. But, after all my worrying, I knew that if it meant not dying in the next few years, I would gladly accept the outcome.

Dr. B. day finally arrived. From my journal:

My visit with Dr. B. did not go as planned. I went in expecting to receive a surgery date and left knowing surgery probably was not going to be an option. I am relieved and excited. I don’t need to stop working out, walking, or riding my bike, and I can start kayaking and playing pickleball.

And, most importantly, I will not lose lung function. Well, not as much as I would have with surgery.

I am seeing my pulmonologist on Tuesday, and then he will schedule me for a bronchoscopy to biopsy the nodule in my lower right lobe. It is located fairly deep in the tissue. Dr. B. thinks it can be reached with a robot-assisted bronchoscopy.

Although the nodule lit up during my PET scan, meaning it most likely is cancer, they still want to do the biopsy to confirm. And I think they want more information about it than a tissue sample alone can provide. I completely agree.

So, the most likely treatment will be radiation. After the biopsy, I will be referred to a radiation oncologist for evaluation. Well, at least that is what I know at this point. After meeting with the pulmonologist, that could change.

Oh, and my PFT results were very, very good. Better than they should be for someone who sacrificed her upper right lobe.

My last biopsy was fairly uneventful, if you ignore that I was not given enough sedative and I could feel the needle going into my body. I have a high threshold for pain, so it was not as bad as it could have been.

My new nodule, however, will not be as easy to biopsy. There was talk of “not being able to reach it,” “well, an external approach may be risky,” and my favorite, “let’s see if we can find a path to get there.” I am not going to lie; I am a bit unsettled about it.

From my journal:

For nearly the last week, I have not thought too much about the cancerous nodule in my lung. I was ecstatic to not be having surgery, and I let myself bask in that light for as long as I could.

But now, today, after my appointment with Dr. F., my pulmonologist, my situation is at the forefront of my mind.

The robot-guided bronchoscopy will be difficult, and they may not be able to reach the nodule. That bothers me quite a bit. I understand the need for it: to know if the cancer is a secondary-primary or a recurrence. That knowledge is critical for my treatment.

I hope they are able to get to it, and that the procedure is a non-event for me. Most likely, it will happen next week.

Within a week or so, I will be put under general anesthesia, intubated, and, guided by a robot I am going to call Rudy for some reason. The other Dr. F (my Dr. F’s partner) will guide something (a camera and tool to sample with, I am guessing) down into my lung to get a piece of my nodule’s tissue.

No problem. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

So that is where I am. Waiting. Waiting to be scheduled for my robot-assisted bronchoscopy. I am holding the fear, holding on to hope, and trying not to freak out. I will have time for that later.

Victoria