Holy food

I don't have the results of my PET yet; it hadn't been read by this afternoon. Nor do I know whether what I had was a metastasis or a new primary. My new oncologist is going to connect with the pathologist in Oakland from two years ago, compare results, and call me tomorrow. I'll also find out whether there are any appropriate clinical trials.

I like my new doctor. He seems really on it. I told him I didn't have a spleen, while he was examining me. He already knew I had spherocytosis. He'd clearly read my stuff. (He asked how anemic I'd been. "No clue. I was almost six.") And he got what I was saying when I asked him, "WHAT is my body doing?", even as the only answer he could give me was, "Melanoma is unpredictable."

He was very concerned that I get into dermatology care up there; I'd missed my appointment two weeks ago in Oakland while I was recovering from surgery. I won't have to call; he'll make the referral.

He didn't feel anything odd during the examination, and he thinks (from that and because I generally look healthy) that the PET will be clean. I told him that my last one was too. And I asked him, "What's your hunch? Do I have more of this that we can't see yet?" He said, probably yes.

The short of it is that I probably am growing more of this crap, we don't know if my immmune system will squash it (clearly it didn't here), interferon "wasn't very effective" (duh), and the best next step will be frequent observation and possibly a clinical trial. Chemotherapy doesn't really work on melanoma. IL-2 (immunotherapy, very effective for a very few people) is only used against advanced disease. So I'll go in every couple of months for examinations. I won't be made miserable like I was on interferon. I won't be hideously, artificially sick, unless and until I develop something that immunotherapy could fight.

He knows my oncologist in Oakland. Said he'd be shocked by my news. I've been wanting to connect with that doctor anyway, so I sent him a note when I got home.

I trust the care I'm getting. I don't trust my body. A kept saying afterward, "You're alive." I didn't even really hear her. I couldn't process it; couldn't believe it. I wasn't ready to hear that I'd been given my life back.

We stopped for mango lassis and garlic naan for the road, because we both were hungry. I called one of my teachers, because I had told her I would let her know my medical news ASAP and because I wanted to hear her voice.  Then we went to the 5:45 Eucharist at Trinity. We'd been planning to; we both knew we would need it.

The presider was one of my mentors. A and I were the only people in the transept when she arrived. She asked how I was, and we talked for a minute. She invited us to light the candles while she vested.

It was the feast of St. Basil, so we used Prayer D. I didn't know I needed it, but the words were food. (I'm a Prayer B junkie for this phrase: "... out of death, into life.") She read a paragraph during her sermon, and asked us to repeat what had struck us. I barely more than whispered, "Rising from the grave, destroyed death."

I'd never been to the Monday Eucharist, so I didn't know the rhythm. I had no idea we'd have anointing. She asked me to share the reason I was standing up for it. I said I'd found a tumor three weeks ago that had come back consistent with metastatic melanoma, had just come from the doctor, didn't know any test results yet but he seemed positive, and the best thing for me was a lot of observation.

She cut in with "and a lot of oil," and invited the others to lay hands on me. I don't even remember the words she prayed, other than "be with her every step of her process." (I'm sure she knew as well as I, the double meaning in that.) She took. her. time. I breathed it in, held by many hands, wrapped in the presence of love.

I had taken my sandals off during the sermon, because I had to feel the ground. I think I'll go barefoot in church from now on. The prayer and the taste and the oil... helped me feel my bones again. I was thinking at some point, the only thing I can do now is live in the moment. When you're eating holy food, eat it and rejoice. When you're giving holy food at the river, give it. When you're integrating, do that--but don't try to do it all the time. Life itself is prayer.

If this crash course in uncertainty teaches me anything, it has to teach me that. Bones and skin and breath are sacred. What we do with them is wondrous. I ask for prayer and am flooded with my communities' love. That is where God is.

I got incredibly freakishly lucky, medically--I found this and had it removed before it spread. The blessing is that I've been to the edge twice now. I know I'll go there again; there is no way of predicting how often my body will throw these. I'll never be allowed to forget. It's both harrowing, and something to be unspeakably grateful for.

Afterward, A and I were alone in the transept, also where the columbarium is. The cross on the wall is this huge metal Celtic thing with figures of Jesus and the gospel symbols. I'd seen it before, but never studied it up close. I had to touch it. Traced the figures, ran my fingers down it and back up, around the circle. Put my hands on somebody's niche. My own heart. And back to the cross again. My body was praying; my mind had no words.

Breathe.  Rise.  I am coming back to life.