Cancer

It's been a very long week of very long days for Judy and I. After 17 years with no disease detected, pain and subsequent scans have revealed extensive spread of Judy's original breast cancer.

The long days continue, with yet more good and bad news. Judy has been in hospital being prodded and pricked and tested to understand the extent of what it is we're dealing with.

When oncologists smile the whole world sighs with relief.

The last eight weeks saw a weekly ritual of Doxorubicin chemotherapy, and blood tests every second of those weeks. Every chemo round saw a little less hair on Judy's head, but also saw a little less of a tumor marker score and an equal improvement in liver function.

Tamoxifen is a drug that was discovered in 1967 when Judy was just a little girl. Now I'm not calling her old, but this particular drug has been used as a formidable tool to control hormone receptor positive tumors for a span of time almost equaling the entirety of Judy's life.

In a previous post I mentioned "spot fires" that may pop up... Of late, irritation in one of Judy's eyes inexplicably degraded to totally blurred vision.

Many critical parts of the body come in pairs, which is really sensible design. Two eyes, two arms ... and two kidneys. While not super obvious, kidneys are super important.

I think oncologists are very much like fire fighters. Fire fighters rarely refer to what they do with large fires as extinguishing them. Small fires are put out, but large fires always seem to be being 'controlled' instead.

Judy is quite fortunate right now. She looks great. I think it obvious, and only right that Judy looks so well most of the time, as the disease is hidden inside. There are some downsides, though.

One of the constants since we discovered this spread of cancer has been lumps that have sprung up in many places around Judy's skin. These lumps are small metastasized breast cancer tumors, and they're surprisingly useful.

The strength of our passion, relationship and respect has only been building over the years, and Cancer 2.0 is making us even stronger. We belong together, and we always have.

Right from the outset, and before Judy even took any, we liked several things about this combination of drugs. After shrinking cancers with chemotherapy it was time for longer-term control again. Time for Afinitor and Aromasin.

Judy has been seeing Dr John for what seems like the entire time we've been married. Despite messing around with her boobs, he's an 'other man' in her life that I tolerate well.

With shared experience of cancer there is heartfelt empathy, there is strong camaraderie, and a desire to listen more than speak. Sometimes words fail.

Tumour markers are specific antigens that are shed by cancer as it grows, and both Dr Rob and Judy and I hang out for the latest test result.

What a cat our Matey was. Stolen by cancer, he'll always stay in our hearts. The Internet is full of cat images, videos, memes and stories, so I thought I'd throw in our cat experience too. Vale little mate.

The hero of this story is an understated and unassuming sort. Looking at Judy's first scans when this all started we could not believe our eyes. It looked like chunks had been taken out of her spine. But a little hero is helping put missing bits back.

For Judy and I we most enjoy music in The Hutch. Music expresses situations, hopes, desires, sadness, gladness, anger, love, fun and frivolity. It says many things, but lately has been hard to handle.

Taking cancer drugs reminds you that as with most things in life there is a balance of get and give. There is a steady flow of undesirable effects that come along with the valuable primary effect. The trade is most definitely worth it, though.

Statistics are horse shit. Trying to read something into them is just a recipe for anxiety. We love that there are super smart men like Dr Rob to utilise them, but for us statistics be damned ... they don't help.

We're trying to always have something booked or planned to look forward to, however far out into the future, whether far flung and exotic or simple and close to home. We cherish the shared memories that result.

Normal is great with cancer. This week was an intentional week off work for Judy. She does need down time, but that wasn't the reason she caused it to be a week off. The reason was pursuit of brilliant normality.

In the middle of the week that was last week Judy started Wednesday off in a slinky MRI friendly outfit. Looking fabulous, the appointment she had was to get some pictures of her brain.

I find writing about Judy's cancer journey cathartic, meaning it's good for my head. It also turns out that it's good for Judy's beautiful head too. Always an optimistic Pollyanna, sometimes her wonderful disposition is a handicap, and that's where me sharing a story or two can help.

It's a natural instinct to protect children from the ills of the world. Where the world turns its ills towards the parent I guess there is a natural tendency to want to insulate them from it. They're tougher than we give them credit for, though.

The greatest joys and pleasure are found in the simplest and most inexpensive of activities. This is hidden treasure, buried in plain sight right in front of us.

The nature of a disease like cancer is that it is a progressive thief, stealing bits and pieces here and there of your body, your mobility, your sense of hope, your dignity, and normality. There are some things it can't steal, though.

The mere things we have are certainly not the staff of life. If we consider all the things we accumulate in life, they rarely add anything to the impact we have on our cherished loved ones.

Usually life's ups and downs are not as absolutely terrifying and exhilarating as a roller coaster, but in every day we feel a somewhat similar rise and fall of life. This can be deeply personal and introverted, or outwardly and extrovertly shared.

We've said to each other on many occasions that having cancer never slips your mind. It is always dominating the front of your thoughts. I know first hand that it never escapes my thoughts, even though I'm not the one with boobs that are trying to kill me.

A week ago Judy's tumour marker showed a worrying upward trend. The last time it did that, it became somewhat runaway soon afterward indicating lots of cancer growth. This time something's different.

Judy and I recently spent some time in Amsterdam. We learned that the people of the Netherlands are patient, tenacious, resourceful, open to new ideas, learn from their mistakes, and are necessarily tolerant. Not unlike oncologists, really.

Pharmacies are usually viewed as a spot to buy makeup wipes, reading glasses, jelly beans and fill the odd prescription for antibiotics. But these places are a brilliant link between science and the community.

If anything helps keep my beautiful Judy on this planet one second longer then it's gotta be worth a go. Often heard as a cliché, in this Christmas special story the wise mens' three gifts get honorable mention.

Serious health matters usually come as such a random thing. One minute you're living a (semi) normal life, then the next you've got your beautiful arse bared in a hospital gown being poked, prodded and methodically put back together.

A nasty infection resulted in five days of intravenous antibiotics in hospital, regular pricking and testing, and putting up with the incessant wailing of an horrendous woman in the bed next door.

Being in hospital is horrible and ironically the more sick you are, the more horrible it is. Of course, there's nothing like a mad Pole to take it beyond horrible.

For most folks, knowing when to pull the cork, or these days unscrew the Stelvin on a fine wine is determined more by having some special event as a catalyst. We just forget about it until then.

Most women baulk at the "gyno" experience, with some skipping the indignity altogether until they have to. But go on, ladies. Get a Nike up ya. Just do it.

The Day Oncology nurses are expert with a cannula, and also expert with kindness, and Judy and I are thankful for each and every one of them.

There is no denying that the symbolism of a simple pink ribbon has done an incredible amount in raising awareness and focus on breast cancer. But it's not done much to actually fix it.

Of Judy's connections, in the month or so just gone, some beautiful people have fallen foul of their disease. Mixed emotions ensue.

While "'till death us do part" may at some stage separate us in body, we are a matched pair of souls whose spirit will continue together forever.

Harking back a long time ago, Judy was admitted to hospital to have a little lump chopped out of her boob. The experience was made a little better by a plump little cuddly buddy.

Meeting in hospital, Judy and Sue have since shared a ton of memories, many over a caffè latte and a piccolo low tide latte.

Judy always fronts up for every suggested poke and scan and endures them gracefully. I think justifiably, one of these scans is about to get its marching orders.

Hospital sandwiches. They're just ambrosial. Ooh, that egg and lettuce. It's unbelievable that the first snack you're gifted as a post-surgery breakfast could possibly trump a party pie.

Brains are complex, super necessary things, and are appropriately well protected by our body's design. Right now, Judy has a critical problem with her brain protection system.

Quality of life with cancer matters, both physically and mentally. The treatments we get, or the treatments we don't can both have a significant impact.

Dr Gavin and his Team Neuro did some surgery today to lay the foundations to fight cancer in Judy's cerebrospinal fluid.

Today was the first test of Judy's new brain plumbing, with methotrexate chemotherapy being injected into her shiny new Ommaya reservoir.

It's two years today since normal life went to custard and Judy's breast cancer returned with a vengeance, and in that time there is much to be pissed off about, but more to be thankful for.

The list of Judy's specialists and their special passion, focus and care of her is impressive. More impressive is that all their discovery flows to Dr Rob, making him smarter. And that's brilliant.

It's true. Bad luck and Friday the 13th is a thing. There were crashes, a big bang, chemo, and some overzealous cloying.

It's impossible to foresee unexpected twists and turns with cancer, so one just has to book holidays, and look forward to them. Dr Rob will make them happen if at all possible.

We’re on-board an Airbus in the pointy end headed to near-equatorial paradise at last. It's all falling into place...

This cancer business with Judy is hard sometimes. But being as one with each other helps so much to not focus on it being so bloody hard.

Palliative care carries with it an almighty stigma of all kinds of shit that you don't want to be in, especially if you're a relatively young spunk.

“Step with care and great tact, and remember that life’s a great balancing act.” - Dr. Seuss

A bizarre twenty four hours became the catalyst for a bit more certainty about why Princess Wobbly Legs has been so wobbly.

My little princess goes by many nicknames. Many of these capture her wonderful spunk, but many also make light of the embarrassing and confronting stuff cancer throws up. Whatever the nom du jour, or merde du jour, she's always my princess.

I'm keeping an active eye on Judy's nibbling, and giving her stretch eating goals to build a weight buffer. It'll probably come in handy.

A big adventure begins at the Palazzo del Vice Re in the province of Como, Italy. Stairs and cobbles can't keep a good woman down.

When you're at home it's a simple chore to wash some clothes. When you're 16,000 km away from home, with a wheelchair it does get interesting.

Originally our trip to Europe was going to span almost the entire month of June. Curtailed by cancer, we grabbed everything we could.

Doctoring wins are brilliant, but by the same token, when losses come they can be terrifying, and confusing and foreign extremes.

After creative imagining in hospital was left behind her, Dr Rob firmed up the plan for disease management going forward.

Police officers give, and give, and give to the community, with very little returned but a modest pay packet. In our Jude's case she's given that little bit more in the form of a beautiful big red smile.

Five days in five paragraphs, with grammar be damned. It's a week off treatment for Judy, so I'm taking a week off of proper good writing. (Squeezing a day off into a paragraph is actually quite hard.)

When we were young, carefree, and cancer free, Jude and I used to root like rabbits when afforded any accommodating circumstance that would allow it, or that we could engineer to allow it.

Getting from bed to couch with cancer can be a big win. But with us together, Judy can set her sights on goals much further afield, and do her best at turning the everyday with advanced cancer into something engaging, involving and special.

This slow motion cancer business is a drawn out game of second guessing how long to put off so much that is confronting and challenging and heart rending, but necessary.

Life's small stories are as important as the big ones. When those small ones are passing, hold tight to them, and never forget, because they're far more important than you can imagine.

Princess ditched her wheelchair today for something with the same number of wheels, but something that made a lot more noise than can come out of me while pushing her chair.

As probably the best diagnostic indicators of where Judy is at right now, it's been three consecutive days without red lipstick, plus we weren't able go to our beloved Italian on Friday night.

Writing down a bunch of notes in an admittedly drunken late night moment of despair, I unwittingly released my latent poet within. I'm not really one for any poetry. It's not me. My English teacher definitely said so.

The Number, called "cancer poo" by me in the past, is the cancer antigen evidence shit out by this type of cancer as it actively grows somewhere in Judy's body. It has been rocketing skywards for weeks.

Home visits by Dr Rob are apparently a rarity. Given the long working hours that he keeps at the hospital, it's easy to see why - there is simply no more time in the day to squeeze in any more care. We love it that he cared to visit Judy.

Judy slipped away this morning after a big and peaceful sleep, on her way to an even longer one.

It was a big day today, seemingly filled with one simple act. I changed my Facebook status to 'widowed'. As I did so, there was a flash of vividly clear remembering, and a return of grief.

I have been feeling the loss of my soul mate as a physical tightness in my chest at times. It is a yearning feeling, I guess, of being on edge, of needing. It's somewhat akin to one who is addicted and being in withdrawal.

As a bloke in an inseparable couple I always hung out at functions attached to Judy, often literally, entertaining and being entertained as a couple. We were a single loved up unit, but then all that changed.

Shortly after Judy died, one of our first jobs was to pick an outfit for her to wear forever. A tale of matching jackets and freaky pants followed.

It has been precisely six months today since Judy left us. I miss her daily pearls of knowledge, and wisdom, and remembering, her laughter, and zest for life, her positivity, and optimism, always looking to the future. And I also miss her risotto.

Happy 55th birthday, my super spunk. There is not a day passing that goes by escaping a moment of combined elation and ache in my heart.

So many things around the house evoke so many memories, thoughts and feelings. The memories are cool, the thoughts are special, but it is hard to describe how precious the feelings are.

Whatever happens on this largely unplanned big trip away, my princess will be travelling alongside me in my heart.

I hated booking a "table for one". Making the telephone call reinforced that my Jude is gone, and that she should be experiencing with me all that these wonderful Greeks have to offer the world.

There is a big difference between solitude and feeling all alone. Solitude is often good for your head, but feeling all alone implies that you'd rather not be all alone.

I dread that more stories will fail to come, one day in the future. I dread a dulling of memory, as seems to happen when time beats forward.

I don't buy art, so this is surprising new behaviour. I bought a Lou-Brice Léonard sculpture, called Doris. The artist, who is a Frenchman, is clearly skilled at celebrating the gorgeous female form.

A recipe is supposed to be a plan to follow, but with risotto all rules of engagement get tossed in the bin. A boat load of love is needed, too, and a little help from your friends.

Many years ago, reacting to her initial cancer diagnosis in the first few weeks so long ago now, Judy entered a period of marrying me off again to another. It made my skin crawl.

When you've got loads of angry tumours out of control and nibbling quickly and dangerously at your beautiful bits, chemo is clearly the weapon of choice. Being nasty stuff, it's gloves on all round with some types.

Jude's idiosyncrasies were almost all gorgeous, and needed no defence or deflection whatsoever. I honestly feel like a bit of a dick over some of mine.

Judith Ann Saunders, passed 28 September 2018 at home and in a toasty warm bed in Glen Iris. This is my last blog post about my super spunk, my angel, my princess, my soulmate, who is gone but will never be forgotten.

There are some things that I am unbelievably glad I started doing in life, like writing things down as they happened, at a time when I could clearly remember them to solidify memories, and also sometimes to record the fun side of a monumental metastatic shit sandwich that had to be eaten.