"Without palliative chemotherapy, the average survival rate is 5-6 months."
That's what my mom's oncologist told my mom and me two weeks ago after we forced her to give us life expectancy rates of patients like my mom. Most doctors refuse to even mention percentages and time frames because every patient is different, and no two cases of cancer are the same. We know there are miracles happening every day, so that's what we need at this point, because the outlook is devastating.
My mom's last day of chemotherapy was October 21, 2021, about 7 months ago.
She had a colonoscopy 3 weeks later on November 10, and there was no new evidence of new disease.
December 14, she had a CT scan and bloodwork. The results were normal, and the cancer had not spread, nor had any new tumors grown. The chemotherapy had done its job, which was the best Christmas present we could have wished for.
Between December and February, mom was out and about all the time with my dad, her friends, and the kids and me. We went to NYC to help Hannah pick out her wedding dress at Kleinfeld, saw the Rockettes at the Christmas Spectacular, and ate delicious oysters at Grand Central. We spent a week in Ft. Lauderdale over Thanksgiving for a change of pace, and we really made (and continue to make) every moment count. I could tell she was feeling great, and for the first time in a long while, cancer wasn't the topic of almost every conversation.
In March, I started to notice little changes that mom wasn't feeling as good as she had been. Of course, when I'd ask, she'd almost always say, "I promise I'm fine."
She chalked up most of the returning nausea, fatigue, and general malaise to post-chemo side effects. The problem with that was she had been feeling pretty good for a couple of months, and these symptoms were new'ish. I say new'ish because they're the same symptoms she had pre-diagnosis in April 2021.
About two weeks ago on May 24, 2022, Mom had a CT scan and bloodwork, and the results showed her cancer had metastasized: a new 1.2 cm tumor within segment 6 of the liver, as well as perihepatic peritoneal nodularity (multiple new cancerous nodules between the stomach and left lobe of her liver), the largest being about 6 mm in size.
I felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me as we reviewed the report because since she had been diagnosed, we knew that peritoneal metastasis was something that could not be beaten. And when her oncologist said the word, "palliative," we both audibly gasped. The first words out of my mom's mouth were, "I'm not ready to die," quickly followed by, "my granddaughter is getting married on New Year's Eve this year, and I absolutely have to be there."
The only two options available to her are palliative chemotherapy to hopefully shrink some of the metastases and extend her life with minimal side effects or no chemotherapy and let the chips fall where they may. Mom has opted for option #1, and she will start FOLFIRI (A chemotherapy regimen consisting of leucovorin calcium (calcium folinate), 5-fluorouracil, and irinotecan used in the treatment of advanced-stage and metastatic colorectal cancer) tomorrow, June 7 at Hillman Cancer Center.
If you're a praying person, please send some prayers her way. And while you're at it, please send some love and prayers to my dad too. He's not doing so well with this even though he'd never admit it.💙
The power if prayer is real. Prayers mom will feel well when she attend the wedding!!!
I'm so sorry to hear this news. I will keep you and your family in my prayers. I know you will all do everything you can to make the most of every second and to make sure she makes that wedding. Sending big hugs and lots of love across the miles.