Cement Block on My Heart

I texted my friend Carrie with the news.

"Kyle's tumor marker has doubled since January."

She texted back "I feel like I have a cement block
on my heart and want to throw up."

Yup, well she just about got it right.

That's how I feel too.

Cement block.

Crushing my heart.

Cannot breath.

Anguish in my soul.

My husband, my husband, my husband.

My friend, my friend, my friend.

(please don't die)
(i'm not dead yet)

---------------------------------

What is a tumor marker you ask?

(Good question, by the way!)

In this case it is called "CA 19-9" and what it does
(in simple terms) is measure the amount/activity/cancer
load in Kyle's body.

Tumor marker up?  That's bad.

Tumor marker down?  That's good.

(In every kind of cancer by the way)

In two months time Kyle's tumor marker (the measure of
the cancer in his body) has DOUBLED.  

This is just plain bad news.

No matter HOW you try and spin it...it's 
JUST.BAD.NEWS.

It means that this round of chemo has NOT worked,
at all on Kyles cancer.

(has not worked--> dagger in heart)

It hasn't stopped, halted, killed or annihilated 
any cancer cells this time.  

Not a bloody one.

They've gone to town inside of him.

Multiplying and replenishing.

(A term much better used for biblical
procreation than cancer cells)

The tumor marker is as high as it was when Kyle
was first diagnosed with cancer.

One year ago.

For a long time the marker stayed low, where it should be,
in the "good zone" but not anymore.

It also means that this kind of chemo is NOT
working on the cancer anymore.  It is not beating it
down, crushing the cells to smitherines, kicking
the crap out of it.

The cancer has become resistant to this kind
of chemo and the past 8 weeks, and all the hives,
and reactions, and what not, were in vain.

Literally.

Kyle called me at work with the news, and let me 
say for the record--THAT IS NOT WHERE I WANT TO HEAR
BAD NEWS!!!!!!!

I sat there shaking and trying not to cry for 
hours until it was time to go home and then fell
into my car and sobbed on the whole drive home.

This is real people.  This is real life.

Now this doesn't mean "We're done"
Nor does it mean "We give up"

It doesn't mean that at all.

But it does mean that things are getting dicey.

We're trying to figure out with doctors what's next.

Kyle technically has one more "dose" on this round
and then a scan--but at this point there is NO point
of the $8000 price tag that each round of chemo costs
or sitting for 6 hours with a drip in his port, or
not moving on to the next kind of chemo.  

There simply is no point because this number 
tells us all we need to know.  

The cancer is growing.

And this chemo no longer works.

What we do need is a new plan.

What we do need is a new scan.

We need to see how big it's grown or how
far it's spread.

We are shaken but still willing to fight.

We are down, but not out.

Remember what I've always said?

Our hope is in the FIGHT.

We're realistic enough to know that in the end
Stage 4 metastatic Cholangiocarcinoma will win.

This is a bitter pill to swallow.

And for all our honesty?
This one hurts deeply and profoundly.

This cancer takes no prisoners, sadly.

It is aggressive and unrelenting. 

It shows no mercy. 

It is every bad word I can think of and will not
type on my blog.  (And then some more bad words on top)

There's our update.

Not a good one at the moment.

We're pow wowing with two doctors and trying
to figure out the next best plan.

There are other chemos in the arsenal...but
they are basically a crap shoot and roll of the
dice.  No one really knows whats next (and by
"no one" I mean the doctors).

We both have our gloves on though and will
continue to fight the good fight while there is 
fight left inside our souls and hearts and 
bodies.

We're feeling a little battered and bruised 
by the news though...we would've like better.

And that's what I've got for today.