Last night I spent more time in an MRI machine than I think I have in any of the other three times I have been in the tube. They were very thorough, and not very good at placing an IV for contrast, but it’s OK because all that time listening to the SiriusXM Classic Vinyl station overlaid with robot techno resulted in a lot of very good images of my liver. I wear these low-platelet bruises happily.
This morning first thing we went to Froedtert and met with the team that’s focused on my liver. They are happy enough with what they see that they have scheduled surgery for November 15, and want me to cancel future chemo appointments. If there was any real negatives in the conversation it was a sense that chemo has been almost too effective and some of the smaller lesions may fall below the threshold of what they can feel or sense with ultrasound during surgery, but what a problem to have.
The original plan of a major liver resection has been modified to a series of small wedge resections and ablation. My gall bladder is also due for the biohazard bin. That changes the procedure from robotic to a traditional open surgery, but again, just tell me when and where to be. I am going for Best Cancer Patient 2023.
My sigmoid colon will be removed at the same time along with a whole bunch of lymph nodes. I meet with my GI surgeon in a couple weeks and will also get a full body scan before surgery just to be thorough.
The tag team nature of the surgery and the “dirty” colon and “clean” liver mean it will be a lonnnnnnngggggg surgery. The most surprising thing I learned today was how long each ablation takes. They pinpoint a lesion, send a probe to it, cook it for 10 minutes like some sort of high-tech curling iron, let it cool for 10 minutes, then cook it again for 10. 30 minutes per lesion. I have 13 lesions. Not all of them get ablated, some come out in slices but yeesh. I won’t care because I will be travelling the land of wind and ghosts, but anyone looking for updates on the day of will need to be patien0t. It happens on a Wednesday, my dudes. Auspicious.
Assuming everything goes as expected I should be out of the hospital well before Thanksgiving, but I won’t be helping anyone move any furniture for a good while.
My job until surgery is to get as healthy as I can and exercise and not catch covid or flu or whatever.
This is not the end of anything. There’s a significant chance they won’t be able to get everything. I’ll be back on chemo after I recover enough that that won’t kill me. Statistically there’s a high chance of relapse, and I will be getting scanned and bloodsucked at varying intensity of interval for the rest of my life, but this is the first actual curative step and I am looking forward to the terror and pain.
I don’t think for a second that I would be in this position without this horde of people supporting me in uncountable ways. It’s really easy to be the guy making everyone in a cancer clinic laugh when you have hundreds of friends doing everything to make you feel like a superhero. I owe you all so much and I love you all so much I will never ever be able to convey it.
Everyday is a bonus checkpoint.
Relieved to hear the chemo did it’s job well enough to make surgery possible.
A friend my mine shared your story with me. Why is this random guy replying? Because I also got the diagnosis around the same time as you. Stage 4 colorectal, with mets in my lungs. Round 4 of FOLFOX starts tomorrow.
I read your words and I can see you trying to describe the experience to someone who doesn’t know. You could use zero words with me and I’d get it all. If you ever need to talk to someone who’s in the club you never want to join, just reach out. Cancer can’t beat us all at once.