Blame Writers

It’s Tolstoy’s fault. Or maybe Dickens. Shakespeare didn’t help either. I suppose if we’re really pointing fingers, you’d have to include the Greeks and all those cavemen who told stories by firelight. I thank them all for sometimes dashing my hope. Because we all know the stories. The stories have been told so many times that in our heads we jump ahead to the ending the minute we recognize the beginning. I blame all of them for making me doubt, especially on days like today. Jordan had another seizure today.

It wasn’t a big seizure–not like the ones a few years ago; the type that knocked her out, took over her body, and at one time, endangered her breathing. Today’s seizure was small. She thought she had to sneeze, and then she disappeared standing up. Her eyes fixed at a distant point. She was unresponsive. Her speech slurred. She checked out from the world for just long enough to send those around her into a panic. Fortunately, there were many around her. Jeanette was there with several of our neighbors and their dogs in tow. They were a wonderful support team. I was in San Diego at client meetings and unable to help at all. When Jeanette told me what had happened, my heart sank.

It could mean absolutely nothing. Even though Jordan has been steadily recovering, her brain has been riddled by disease. Though the tumor hasn’t shown any signs of growth, its carcass is strewn about in her head. Even if it is still dead, the weight of the dead tumor is itself enough to make the brain misfire at times. That’s why she’s still on anti-seizure medication.

But what if…

She stopped chemotherapy in September. Our plan was to stop the drugs and “wait and see”. She’s due for an MRI in December, when the doctors will look hard to see if the cancer remains dormant. Of course, my mind has skipped to the end. What if this sudden change is the second act clue of what’s to come? What if this is the warning sign that the disease is active again? I want so much to believe it’s not, but I’ve spent too much of my life reading the works of those who came before. The story is in my head. And though I am so often a sad optimist, I have no words of cheer today. No great and tidy conclusion to my post. Just a lot of worry and a bit of resentment at the bards who’ve filled my head with doubt.