Life after Paul's HIPEC surgery was good. Real good. He was considered 'NED' (no evidence of disease) and required no further treatment beyond quarterly CT scans to make sure things stayed that way.
"Liz. Something came up on the scan. They think it's back."
A week or two later they did a biopsy, which confirmed suspicions: it's the blasted Meso.
New Year's Eve, 2014: Dr. Kane attempts another debulking surgery. It doesn't work.
Ok, Meso. We get it—you're bigger than us and a bit of a bully. But, I dunno, could you maybe be cool for like one minute, dude?
January 2015: Meso tells us to piss off, but our family and friends and total strangers won't take that for an answer. So they turn themselves into a massive safety net and make sure we are fed and loved and taken care of. People are incredible. I can't even tell you.
February 2015: We look into clinical trials and start traveling to meet with Mesothelioma specialists. First stop: Chicago. Where we have deep dish pizza. And meet with Dr. Kindler. But pizza!
So, I'm oversimplifying here, obviously. Even with our warm and fuzzy safety net and the life-altering experience of tasting Chicago deep dish for the first time—those were some rough months. Looking back, I can see very clearly that I had a severe case of post-partum depression that my stupidhead self ignored. Don't be like me. If you can't get through a day without ugly-crying 16 times, um, get help.
March 2015: We attend a Mesothelioma Symposium in D.C. Major turning point. Major. We connect with Dr. Hassan's team at the National Institute of Heath. We meet, for the first time, other people fighting like Paul. Meso becomes less scary. Still a bully, yeah. But we discover this jerk does have weaknesses, and we are getting back in the ring. And this time, I am going to be the hot cheerleader wife my partner needs.
It's likely I'm romanticizing those first two years of marriage (there I go again) but most of my memories look like this:
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| Super Fantastic Explosion of Fun!!! Weeeee! |
We camped and took road trips in my Volvo wagon and met interesting hippie folk at festivals and visited vineyards and had lots of barbecues and hiked and watched Dexter. Also made this exquisite creature:
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| Ingrid Philomena |
A month after Ingrid was born, Paul went in for his routine scan. That's what his CT scans had become to us: just part of our routine. Entirely ordinary, unremarkable check-ups.
At that time, I'd say I was maybe unrealistic about what we were dealing with here. Mesothelioma is a bear—viciously aggressive, and in our case, brutally cruel with its timing.
"Liz. Something came up on the scan. They think it's back."
A week or two later they did a biopsy, which confirmed suspicions: it's the blasted Meso.
Oh, Paul. Sweet, handsome, hilarious Paul. Just stop. Stop having this bloody cancer. Stop so we can be young and new and happy forever.
Sept-Nov 2014: Paul receives two (dreadful, awful, mean) chemotherapies—Altima and Cisplatin. They don't work.
Sept-Nov 2014: Paul receives two (dreadful, awful, mean) chemotherapies—Altima and Cisplatin. They don't work.
New Year's Eve, 2014: Dr. Kane attempts another debulking surgery. It doesn't work.
Ok, Meso. We get it—you're bigger than us and a bit of a bully. But, I dunno, could you maybe be cool for like one minute, dude?
January 2015: Meso tells us to piss off, but our family and friends and total strangers won't take that for an answer. So they turn themselves into a massive safety net and make sure we are fed and loved and taken care of. People are incredible. I can't even tell you.
February 2015: We look into clinical trials and start traveling to meet with Mesothelioma specialists. First stop: Chicago. Where we have deep dish pizza. And meet with Dr. Kindler. But pizza!
So, I'm oversimplifying here, obviously. Even with our warm and fuzzy safety net and the life-altering experience of tasting Chicago deep dish for the first time—those were some rough months. Looking back, I can see very clearly that I had a severe case of post-partum depression that my stupidhead self ignored. Don't be like me. If you can't get through a day without ugly-crying 16 times, um, get help.
March 2015: We attend a Mesothelioma Symposium in D.C. Major turning point. Major. We connect with Dr. Hassan's team at the National Institute of Heath. We meet, for the first time, other people fighting like Paul. Meso becomes less scary. Still a bully, yeah. But we discover this jerk does have weaknesses, and we are getting back in the ring. And this time, I am going to be the hot cheerleader wife my partner needs.
April - May 2015: Paul enrolls in the SS1P clinical trial at the NIH. He makes it through two cycles, but is booted in June when his body develops an antibody to the drug. We're bummed, but just gotta keep on keepin' on.
September 2015: Paul receives the first bit of good news he's had in the last year: his tumors ARE SHRINKING!!!!! Wahoooo! Finally, his tumors have responded to something. Joy of joys.
September 2015: Paul receives the first bit of good news he's had in the last year: his tumors ARE SHRINKING!!!!! Wahoooo! Finally, his tumors have responded to something. Joy of joys.
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| Kayaking for Meso: 2015 - Raising funds for the Mesothelioma Foundation |
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