Horticulture, Crushed Hopes, and Possible Upheavals
After a happy week with family, I receive some very bad news
I have been waiting to hear from my oncologist in Paris about the pathology of my cancer. A new drug for ovarian cancer has just been approved here in France, but it is only effective in ovarian cancer patients whose cancer has a specific folate receptor. I have been waiting weeks for the results, pinning my hopes on this new drug, mirvetuximab sorvastine, or Elahere in the US. But yesterday my oncologist wrote me – in a half-sentence email – that I tested negative for these receptors. That all that is left to me are trials. For which I also do not currently qualify. My best hope seems to be to develop a large enough tumor for trials.
My mood was already spiraling towards the drain when I received this news, and it paralyzed me. I paced around the kitchen as I talked with Tim, feeling sick and griefstricken and unable to do anything. I don’t want to tell my daughter this news. The narrowing of my options.
I’m now more terrified about my semi-working bowels than ever, knowing that if they become blocked by cancer, there is no plan to treat it. I can’t seem to find anything to pin my hopes to, except for growing a large tumor. I want all of you healthy people to thank your body every time you poop. It is a miracle to poop! It keeps you alive! It is such a blessing. Treasure this ability.
I look in the mirror and remind myself, as I wrote last week, that I am still living. I am eating, working, moving. But I already feel like a ghost of myself.
For the past week, my sister Rebecca and my brother-in-law Dave have been visiting us. It’s difficult for them to take time away from their jobs and pets and lives, and tough for my sister to travel, as she has her own medical issues, so I was grateful to them for making the trip. They were very good company, cheery and helpful and empathic.
Rebecca is an ace gardener, so Tim put her to work creating a flower garden and herb garden in our little courtyard, and filling the planters on our little front balcony. We visited nurseries and picked out pretty perennials and a lemon tree. I am thrilled to have a little lemon tree out back! We have new beauty in our lives in the gardens.
I can’t say that I have been cheery company. I pick my way through the days as though they are mined with explosives. Everyone kept asking me what I wanted to do, and I couldn’t think of anything. Nothing brings me joy, I said. Except work. (And maybe peanutbutter). We did do things, however, and doing these things did distract me from myself. We made delicious meals, we took (brief) walks, we went to the vintage market in Sommières. We had drinks at our favorite local café.
I also had my Avastin treatment. It was over quickly, yet the time at the hospital plunged me into despair, despite my constant reminders to myself that everyone there is trying to keep me alive. I felt such physical and mental dis-ease that I could not be comfortable. Dr. F— was her usual brusque self. She took the merest glance at my echographie results that reported the various ligaments that have torn off pieces of bone in my foot and said, “these arrachements are nothing! I once fractured my foot in two places! Right before my vacation! This could have been so much worse!” True, of course. Things could always be worse. But really, Dr. Farrouki. Is empathy so hard? She also said that recovery could take up to a year and I needed to immediately get orthpaedic shoes so I can re-learn how to walk. She’s such a ray of sunshine! She fills me with renewed optimism!
The despair was such that I didn’t know how I would get through the long hours before we were all meeting Theo for dinner. They felt unbearable. In the hope that art would cheer me, Tim and I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art (Mo.Co.). The multi-floor exhibit was all about the connection between art and science which was interesting theoretically but not all that much fun to look at. I don’t really enjoy looking at parts of the body right now. Bodies just remind me of the failures of my own. Everything looked like intestines. We ended the day with a very nice meal at Le Sheri’s which does tasty gluten-free food, safe for celiacs. I was glad Theo could join us.
After we left Rebecca and Dave at the airport Monday, I found myself slipping further downwards. Sometimes I don’t realize how good and helpful it has been to have company until I lose it. I missed my sister.
In the car, Tim and I began a conversation about my inability to find happiness here. My longing to be in a city. I thrive on the literary and artistic communities I find in cities, on walking everywhere, on not having a car, on public transportation, on proximity to theatre, art, swimming pools, diverse foods, the flow of busy, ambitious humans. On so many resources being within arm’s reach. I didn’t realize what a city creature I was until I left. I didn’t realize what a city creature my daughter is until we left. Would I be happier here if she were happy?
An American friend recently suffered a terrible accident that landed him in a hospital, and his warm and vast community instantly rallied around him. People visited, brought meals, and sent support in many ways—because he is a loveable and brilliant man, rooted in a community with whom he has a long history. I long for that kind of community, for those lifetime relationships, which I do not have, which I cannot have. My friends are too spread out around the globe. My closest friends are in South Africa, Norway, California, New York, London, Nebraska, New Orleans, the Netherlands, and Bolivia. I cannot nestle into them. Cities are my best hope for a concentration of friends.
We need to get you to a city, Tim said. We’ll sell the house.
Tim is so happy here. It was his dream to live in France. And he is stuck with me and Theo, both miserable. “Your state of mind is important for your health,” he said. “It’s not good for you to be here if you are so unhappy.”
I don’t want to sell the house, the only place I have ever owned. I still remember the magic of discovering it. We’ve had more than a decade of happy times here during summers and holidays. It is rich with memories. There are lovely, creative people here. It’s the most exquisite Medieval village. We haven’t finished hanging my mother’s artwork or unpacking boxes. I wonder if we could rent it out for enough money to pay for rent in a city. Tim is doubtful. But we are starting to explore options. Could we survive in Paris? In London? We don’t have enough money for either, unless we have some miraculous real estate luck. And if we move, we won’t be able to pay for theatre classes for Theo. Also, given that my time appears to be short, why should my family uproot itself to make me happy? When I am about to leave them?
Still, we decided to start doing research. I am mentioning this here in case anyone knows of an insanely cheap two-bedroom flat in Paris or London (or New York, though I could not afford healthcare there unless I get a job there – and who wants to hire someone in my situation?). Or maybe someone wants to rent our house? Or exchange homes? Or knows of a new magical treatment for platinum-resistant high-grade serious ovarian cancer with no folate receptors? All ideas are welcome.
The whole idea of moving, when we have not even settled in here, is daunting. But so is everything right now.
Yesterday I had to see my local doctor, who is wonderful, for a minor medical issue. After addressing that, she asked how everything was going with treatment, and as I updated her, I wept. I apologized, and she said. “You must allow yourself to cry. You have just received some very bad news. It is natural to fold into yourself and cry for a few days, to release it. Only then will you be able to resume your battle.” She was emphatic. I’ve been so focused on trying to find my way toward equanimity and keeping myself from wallowing that crying felt like weakness, giving in.
“Tim too?” He was with me, stoic and supportive as always.
“Yes. Perhaps not around each other, you can each cry in your separate corners. But you must cry. Then you resume the fight.”
This was such a refreshing change from Dr. F, who is disgusted by any display of emotion. I was grateful. And as we left, I didn’t even feel like crying anymore.
I’m leaving the comments open this week, just in case someone wants to rent our house for a few years or knows of a miraculously cheap or free two-bedroom flat in a major city, preferably Paris, London, or New York (NYC is unrealistic but how can I resist including the city of my heart?).
This week’s reading:
Heaven & Earth Grocery Store by James McBride - Love so far
Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld - Hate so far (but loved Romantic Comedy!)
Bloody hell! I’m so sorry you’ve gotten this news. You’re living with it though, not succumbing to it. Your doctors are brusque because they like and admire you a lot and don’t want to let their guard down in front of you. Or at least that’s my theory. But it’s a kick in the teeth. Regroup. Eat well. Channel your energy tomorrow.
I love the "cry, and then fight again" advice. It's all too much to hold ALL the time. All so beautiful and terrifying Jennifer. Praying you get a miracle in housing AND health!