Hope is not contingent

The new reality of cancer treatment during a pandemic.

When you live with MBC your life is carved into segments. 21 day chemo cycles, 4 month scan intervals, the awful vortex of waiting for results, periods of stability or the twisting falling uncertainty of rapid progression… We walk a tightrope between segments - not knowing which one is coming next.

This week I fell into a new segment. My routine scans showed that the fluid in the lining of my lung is back. This is called a malignant pleural effusion. Which I dealt with last year around this same time. My oncologist and I have a scale for how bad things are… oh crap, oh shit or oh F@$%. We need to get more information to see where this falls on the scale- so more tests, blood work, exam and a thoracentesis to drain the fluid are all on deck for the coming week. I’m hoping for crap.

I am heartbroken because I had big plans for a period of durable stability. My first treatment kept me stable for 6 years. I made a deal with my body that we were going to once again be a magnet for miracles and get 5 years out of Ibrance - a new drug with promising effectiveness. So, progression at just 1 year was a big blow. The way MBC works is you stay on each treatment as long as you can… because there are limited options for MBC patients. When we run out, we die. A harsh reality I have watched play out with more friends than I can remember. The segments line up consistently in a heartbreaking pattern.

Immediately my heart goes to “what if?” “when?” “how?” of what this means. I jump into the terror and sadness of the future. My heart sinks realizing the fragility of our happy family and my health. My world changed in an instant. The carefree joy I worked hard to cultivate retreated to the corners of my heart as the dark veil of anxiety and sadness covered me.

I went to sleep last night thinking about how i will be responsible for causing my children the deepest hurt of their lives. I stared at the ceiling thinking about what Team Mac will look like without me. I imagined the events and moments I will miss. I envisioned all the dreams Jay and I had for our family… together. Only my exhaustion relieved me of the pain.

I woke up this morning joyful with the rising sun shining in the window. I pulled the warm covers up around my chin. Then, I remembered we were in a new “segment.” Anxiety swept over me like a chill and tears soaked my pillow. Instantly my head started throbbing. I don’t want to be in this segment. The call was supposed to be different… ”scans look great, Lara.”

I give myself grace to have all the feelings - I don’t force them away. I lay in bed a puddle of feelings.

Eventually, I remind myself the same thing I tell every person I connect with… Hope is not contingent.

My hope is bigger than this circumstance - it has to be. It isn’t reliant on the results of the scan - it transcends the results. Even as my heart breaks - the cracks let in light. Regardless of these circumstances I am safe, loved, joyful and strong. Light shines brightest in the darkness.

Sometimes, you can’t wait for the light at the end of the tunnel. You have to bring it into the tunnel. Stoke it deep inside you. It is there inside all of us- fueled by something bigger than ourselves… faith, love, God, universe, hope… whatever word you use. It doesn’t exist because of a circumstance or scan result. It just is. Always.

I am holding on to hope now more than ever. Not to take away the hurt or deny the weight of this news, but to help us carry it. Thank you for holding on with me - encouraging us, surrounding us (from a safe distance) and reminding us hope is not contingent.

“Even as my heart breaks, the cracks let in light.”