Cleared for travel

A brief medical update

We are the tree-like thoughts that bloom on the garden paths of the mind. A poster in Arles.

I’ve been feeling well. I walk up and down mountains without tiring. I work every day, writing my minimum daily wordcounts. My brain simmers with ideas. I’ve even experienced flashes of happiness. I’ve never been so glad to be able to work. New hope has cleared my horizon, leaving room for more life.

So I was stunned to open my lab report this past week to see that my tumor markers have jumped dramatically. Six times what they were last month. They are still in the normal range, it’s the movement that concerns me. I hadn’t even been worried about these blood tests. My platelets have been hanging in there, hovering just at the minimum level they need to be for me to continue on my half-dose of Niraparib.

Immediately, my brain began to race with all I need to fit in before I feel sick again, before I die. I need to sell one book and finish another, write more book reviews for the New York Times, write a mystery, write a boarding school book, go to Japan, live in a house next to a lake, take a research trip to Uzbekistan, sell more short stories, climb all forty-six Adirondack high peaks, visit Helen in Capetown, Jeni in Norway, run around Paris with Ana and Cat, see the South Pacific, write hundreds of letters to my daughter to open after my death, live in New Orleans, New York, Sanaa. I need to hike the Santiago de Compostela trail with my husband. And I am not done organizing my bookshelves!

I am not ready to let go. Not that illness waits for anyone to be ready.

Even while I knew I was getting ahead of myself, that I was creating hypothetical futures, that there was no point in trying to push away whatever future will come, my brain echoed with the refrain: I cannot leave my daughter. I cannot leave my daughter. I cannot leave my daughter.

I have been enjoying her company so much. I love listening to her passionate critiques of a terrible book as much as I love hearing her rave about one she says changed her life. I love having study halls with her. I love hearing her talk about her friends. She is currently studying for a national exam on the last four years of schoolwork, and came downstairs yesterday morningn to ask me to make her coffee. “Insanely strong,” she said. “I need it strong enough to take me to another plane of existence.” I looked at her and said, “I have never felt so sure that you are my daughter.”

I need to live long enough to see her happy again. I can’t leave her when we have so many interesting conversations in our future. She always says she needs to marry and have children young, so we can be at her wedding and know our grandchildren. She wants me to see her get married. I need to know how she fares at lycée this next year. I need to see her perform at summer camp. I have writing residencies scheduled in the Adirondacks, Costa Rica, and Italy. I’m scheduled to speak on an authors’ panel in Paris.

I don’t want tto loosen my grip on the mountain behind my house, the fossils strewn on my path, the bitter black allongés at La Florian, the jar of almond butter on my desk, the drawers full of dark chocolate, the sunlight coming in through the window, the shelves of unread books, the rose-flavored toothpaste, the soundtrack to Taylor Swift’s Era’s Tour, the music of Coppélia, my worn-through ballet shoes, the barre Tim gave me for Christmas, my stacks of journals, the taste of cherries in season, the comfort of porridge, a cold glass in my hand on a hot day, endless walks through Manhattan, through London, the pink-gold dawn on the Hampstead Heath, Irish accents, laughing with friends at writer’s conferences, the peace and euphoria of residencies, the softness of my post-chemo ringlets, the vibrations of my purring cat against my throat as I carry her down for breakfast, the music of Toni Morrison’s voice reading her own books, the quiet of mornings before anyone else is awake.

Clearly I was not as zen about these blood results as I had hoped I would be. I had been doing a good job of not thinking ahead, just carrying on with my life as if it had no deadline. The blood tests reminded me not to get cocky.

Fortunately, I already had a CT scheduled, as my oncologist had wanted me to have one before I traveled this summer. I don’t usually worry about scans. They will be what they will be. But my blood results made me worry about this one.

But my oncologist greeted me smiling. “Your scan is good,” she said. “No sign of disease.”

Reprieve! (Until the next scan at the end of August). We still don’t know why my tumor markers have risen. It could be the virus my daughter recently shared with me. We hope it’s not the start of a trend. I am packing away these worries for the summer.

I am delighted. For the first time, our forthcoming trip to England (for my PhD graduation) and the United States (to spend time with family, take Theadora to camp, and attend a writing residency) feels real. I am cleared for travel! Dr. D’Hondt asked me to send her a photo of my PhD graduation.

There remains quite a bit to prepare, now that I realize I am really going. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by all the logistics. Theadora needs things for camp. We needed to find somewhere to stay in London (solved!). I need weekly blood tests in the US, which will be pricey. Travel insurance won’t cover anything cancer-related. But we have to keep an eye on my platelets. If anything serious happens while I am away, I’ll need to be spirited back to France for care. But none of this dampens the thrill of being able to travel to the US for the first time in too many years.

There is a temptation when writing these weekly posts to come up with a moral, or at very least a piece of advice. But the posts I enjoy most as a reader are those that simply allow me a window into another life and mind. Just observing another life, how another person navigates the writing life or cancer or both is useful to me. Recently ,I have found Patti Smith’s videos particularly moving, because she does so little. She tells us a few details about her day, shows us her coffee mug, shares her packing list. She wears no makeup and her hair is in two messy silver braids. I love her infinitely for her refusal to be anyone but herself. She doesn’t perform; she just is. I have more to say about Patti Smith, having just finished reading Just Kids, but I will save that for another post. I’ve kept you here long enough already.

View from a hike around Les Gorges de Gardon