On December 20th Lauriel was diagnosed with rectal cancer.
On November 17th, she'd gone to the doctor with some bleeding from her bum, the doctor was pretty sure it was hemorrhoids, but sent a referral for a colonoscopy anyway. A letter arrived not long after, saying she'd have her procedure within 4 months. A couple of days after that the scheduling department rang and booked her in for December 10th. December 10th she has the colonoscopy and afterward, the surgeon told us they had found the cause of the bleeding. A mass.
That was likely malignant. He'd sent tissue away for a biopsy.
I fucking cried. Jesus I cried. It was like she'd died - I was inconsolable.
The surgeon sent referrals for an MRI and a CT, both of which were had the following Tuesday, so four days after the colonoscopy. Thursday that same week the scheduling department called and gave us an appointment for December 20th, to receive the results.
In the space between the colonoscopy and the results, my brain was all over the place, I imagined her dying before we got the results, I imagined finding out the cancer had spread and she was terminal, I imagined the cancer hadn't spread but was deep in the tissue, I imagined she would be okay, I imagined she wouldn't be okay. What I didn't imagine was that it would be benign. I just knew.
The results? The best of the bad, I guess you could say. The mass was indeed cancerous, but it was small and superficial - no spread to deeper layers of tissue, and more importantly, no spread to other parts of the body.
Treatment was discussed, with a more conservative route decided on by the surgeon and his colleagues. Radiation and chemotherapy. Hearing those words. Wow, I cannot explain how real it all became. The surgeon wasn't just talking about radiation and chemo - he was talking about my wife having radiation and chemotherapy.
A little background here. I have anxiety. My biggest fear is that someone I love will die from cancer. And there it was, my biggest fear in the world... my wife had cancer.
The surgeon reassured us he was confident that the cancer could be successfully treated and that the prognosis was good. Currently, I believe him. I have to believe him, because the alternative is something I am not ready for.
An oncology nurse came in just before we finished our appointment with the surgeon, and afterward she took us into another office to discuss the procedure from here out. She spoke about referrals and referral times, the oncology team in Palmerston North and how they will work together to determine precisely how the treatment will look. She explained what will happen at our first appointment with the oncology team, that Lauriel will need another CT scan, which will help them determine precisely where the radiation needs to be aimed. We were given contact details for the oncology nursing team, and the oncology social work team - and told to contact them whenever we needed. Honestly, the support we received from her at that appointment was incredible - and things haven't even started yet!
The post-appointment part of that day is a bit of a blur. I rang my sister. I rang my dad. I rang my mum. I rang my eldest daughter, Gaby. I rang my manager.
I did not cry. I expected to be a mess, but knowing the results and knowing there was a plan in place - it meant there was less of the unknown, less space for my brain to do its thing and go straight to worst case scenario.
We told Eloise and Emersyn in person (Gabrielle lives in Queenstown and Aidan was with his dad for the Christmas period this year). I expected tears from them too, but none. It isn't like they didn't care, I just think they were taking their emotional lead from us. We were calm, so they were calm. Lauriel rang Aidan and told him over the phone, again, he was okay about it.
For those of you who know us personally, you'll know we like joking around, we like a good laugh. Hence why, from the beginning we've been getting through this with humour.
Case in point. Upon telling Aidan that she may have cancer (after the colonoscopy), his reply was "well, that's one booboo I'm not going to kiss better!". We also discussed whether her bumhole will glow in the dark because of the radiation therapy. Would her farts be radioactive? Will she glow in the dark? Never did I imagine that talking about Lauriel's bumhole would become one of our typical family discussion points.
The kids friends have taken a similar lead, with suggestions she could just shart it out or poo it out, or that maybe we could pray the bum cancer away.
I hope that no one thinks we aren't taking this seriously, because we use so much humour. We are. We understand how scarily serious it is, but I think it all comes down to the old addage, that you either need to laugh or cry, and we've chosen the laughter option.
Don't get me wrong. I cry. I haven't seen anyone else cry, but I surely have. It took me a good eight days after the diagnosis to cry though, and that was when we saw the oncology social worker. The moment we got in that waiting room, shit, the tears... they just came. I fought them back and battled to keep them away, but the moment we were taken into the actual consult room... boom. The dam broke and I was crying like I did after the colonoscopy.
Shit was becoming very real. There was a bit of an information overload and it was hard to take it all in, but obviously anticipating this, Sam, the lovely social worker, provided us with booklets and pamphlets and, as with the oncology nurse, she gave us contact details and told us to ring or text whenever we needed to. Again, things aren't really underway yet (by that, I mean treatment hasn't started), and we're already being so wonderfully supported by the oncology team.
By the time we left that appointment, I was feeling a lot better... grateful even, to live in a country like New Zealand where we don't have to worry about how the hell we are going to pay for all of this treatment, all the scans, all the specialist appointments. And, while we haven't had contact with them (as they are closed until Jan 12), I can already tell you I am grateful for the Cancer Society. The social worker outlined the services they offer (such as free transport to and from treatment, which is 50 minutes away) and I can tell their support is going to make a load of difference to our little family.
There you have it, the blog post I have been wanting to write everyday since the 20th. For me, writing is the way I deal, the way I get my head around things and the way I process. I am sharing our journey so that those near and dear to us know what we're going through, what comes next, etc. - because I know not everyone knows how to ask! But I'm also sharing our own journey to give hope to others who are going through their own cancer journey, particularly those who suddenly find themselves with what feels like a scary, daunting road ahead.