Scanorama

Since last time I posted...we moved to Nashville. Awesome for all of the reasons, and our boys are doing great in their new environment. It is nice to hear an occasional "yes sir!" when I ask them to do something, but those moments don't happen often enough. We loved our summer with reunions and activities in Utah and Idaho, trip to Yellowstone, horrible attempts to reignite my fishing prowess, two Braves games, an extended beach trip to Tybee Island, and lots of quality family time. Business is good, kids are great, and school is off to a smashing start. Pics at bottom of this post. Now let the blogging commence.

Annual scans for long-term cancer survivors can invoke the highest levels of stress and worry, especially when people feel healthy. The "what if" questions always linger in the back of their minds, but when it's scan time, sanity flies out the window while they wait for results, for confirmation, for answers.

Liz has been rocking the every-three-week treatments and still feels fantastic, even with the occasional bouts of exhaustion (although, that could be child or husband related). We decided to name the past week SCANORAMA! I thought it would provide whimsy and magic to an otherwise stressful time. Didn't work. But I'm now committed to the term, so SCANORAMA! it is. Over the past week Liz scheduled:

• Echocardiogram for her heart
• CT scan of chest, abdomen, pelvis
• Bone scan from head to toe
• Mammogram
• Ultrasound

She also has been building her strength and working out more, so she treated herself during SCANORAMA! to an extra X-ray on her foot when she messed up a tendon last week. Side note: she will kick you in the face with her sweet Stormtrooper boot. 1 scan down, 5 more to find out about.

So five scans left and then...we waited. The oncologist said she wouldn't call in advance, which wouldn't mean it was good, or bad, or anything -- it's just not her process. Vast difference from good ol' Dr. Hantel in Chicagoland who called the evening after each scan was completed. One of the radiologists let it slip that the mammogram looked good so they didn't need to do an ultrasound, but only after dramatically running out of the room to chat with her colleague about the results (such things cause a bit of anxiety in cancer patients). 3 down, 3 to go.

It's one thing to feel well, but it's a whole other thing to know that someone knows whether or not you are well. We arrived this morning at the cancer center for the doctor visit prior to Liz's scheduled treatments. Liz and I both acted like we weren't nervous. We're not great pretenders, given our stress levels and lack of sleep over the past few nights.

The doctor came in the room. After some friendly and awkward chit chat (while we screamed in our heads "JUST SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT!!!"), we reviewed the remaining scan results:

• Echocardiogram was perfect
• CT scan was as good as anyone would hope for
• Bone scan was superb

To quote the oncologist: "You are doing spectacularly well. Really wonderful results. You're a remarkable patient."

Whew. So on we go.

The paradox in knowing how well Liz's doing is also knowing that there are so many others who aren't doing well. The doc said that although she has seen many long-term HER2+ advanced stage cancer patients, Liz is by far doing better than any of her other patients. Ever. We cheer for Liz's success! But we cheer quietly as we sit here, waiting for the medications to pump into her chest port, surrounded by others who are traveling through their own cancer journeys.

We are blessed, and grateful. Now I really want to go eat some celebratory carbs.