My friend Lola was diagnosed with mets yesterday.
Lola is known on my online community as the Tartan Terror. She’s from Scotland.
She is amazingly funny and foul-mouthed. We get along great.
I would say I know someone who gets diagnosed with mets about once a week. Most of the time, I have a very “damn the luck, but life goes on and you will fight, fight, fight” feel about it. I can see the news and move on, knowing I’ll be as supportive to that person as I can be within my limits. Not with Lola.
Lola was diagnosed about five months after me. Our stats are almost identical. She has the same disease I have. The same node status. The same size. The same hormone status. The same treatment.
She is just a couple of years older than me and has a daughter younger than mine.
And if there are mets growing in me the way they were in Lola, there is not a damn thing I can do about it. Not a damn thing.
They won’t even run tests until “other” symptoms show.
They won’t change medicines or look for another course of action until “other” symptoms show.
They won’t actually do anything until “other” symptoms show. There isn’t anything to do.
I sit here and wonder – is this pain in my forehead for the last three days cancer or just a sinus infection? Are the cramps I’m getting all over my body, even in my feet, a tumor disrupting my nervous system or maybe I’m just not getting enough water? And that shooting pain in the “good” breast, is it just from having too much caffeine or do I have more cancer there?
And so, I sit.
And I want the best for Lola.
And I want the best for me.
And I want even better for our daughters.