Terminal

“To have courage for whatever comes in life 
– everything lies in that.” - Saint Teresa of Ávila

With my comfort kitty, Lizzie

It was 5:00pm on Monday, February 12, when my cell phone rang. Sean had just headed out to wash the truck and pick up a few groceries. I was alone at home. And the number was a local one.

"Hi, Marybeth. This is Dr. Datko. I'm so sorry, I have news that we were not hoping for. Your cancer has spread..."

Even through the fog of this week, I remember the call clearly. I wasn't expecting to hear so soon about the results of my PET scan I'd had the same morning. The doctor was on vacation; we were scheduled to see her Wednesday. This news wasn't supposed to come. Not now. Not ever.

But, I kind of knew.

The weird pain on my ribs, the pleural effusion in my lung lining, the shortness of breath I'd been feeling, the persistent cough, the stupid rising CA-125 tumor marker - they were signs. My heart was in denial, but my head was telling me for weeks that sometimes the simplest explanation is THE explanation.

I am now a woman with metastatic triple negative breast cancer. There are cancerous lesions on my ribs, in my lungs, on my pelvis, and along several vertebrae. It also looks like there's been a spread of the cancer into lymph nodes in the center of my chest. The radiologist's report says there's evidence of "widespread metastasis."

After hanging up with the doctor, I immediately called Sean and told him to come home. I talked with my parents, my sisters, and several of my closest friends. It was an exhausting, tear-filled night. And, it stretched into one of the fastest and yet also one of the longest weeks of my life.

My stage IV cancer is no longer deemed curable. Our goal is now to find the best treatments available to prolong my life.

On Tuesday morning, we rushed to do an MRI of my brain to make sure the cancer had not spread there. Thankfully, that scan came back clean. Sean and I spent most of the day in tears, holding each other, and talking with our loved ones.

We saw our oncologist Wednesday morning about next steps for treatment. It was an emotional experience - seeing wonderful nurses (like Nichol and Jamie! Both were there to support me Wednesday) and staff who have worked hard to care for me over the last 15 months. The sadness and disappointment about my diagnosis was palpable. We spent about an hour and half with the doctor, talking through options and paths for treatment. As it was Ash Wednesday (and Valentine's Day), we went from our appointment to mass. By the time we got out of church, the support team at UC Health already had lined several appointments up for us.

At this point, we are hoping to get me into a clinical trial that is not purely chemotherapy based, since my cancer has already survived 5 different chemo drugs. Things are moving quickly to get me into treatment ASAP. We drove down to the Denver area Wednesday night, and, on Thursday morning, we saw an oncologist/researcher at the University of Colorado hospital in Aurora about options for clinical trials. We were excited to learn there's a promising treatment in trials there, and we signed up for it on the spot (knowing we can pull out if we do not get randomized to receive the experimental drug).

I’ll have an access port put back in my upper chest this coming Tuesday​, since any treatment will require that. The details of the different clinical trial options are all complicated. The bottom line is that each decision we make about a possible treatment affects a lot of other decisions. As of now, we're honing in on the trial in Denver and also meeting with a doctor at Northwestern in Chicago next week about trials there. In particular, one option at Northwestern is an immunotherapy drug trial we've been advised to explore.

The logistics of finding a treatment could be consuming... but the emotions of facing one's own mortality are taking center stage for me. I am brought to tears easily, thinking about the experiences I might miss out on and the people I could prematurely leave behind. But, I have a good, positive attitude in many ways. Prayer has grown increasingly essential for me. My faith is grounding me and reminding me what matters (along with what glory lies ahead). My soulmate Sean is with me at every step, in every heartbeat. I'm trying to feel more in control of my circumstances by eating any freaking cancer-fighting vegetable I can get my hands on, along with other recommended foods, and cutting added sugars from my diet.

If you're the praying type, we'd welcome prayers for wise doctors, the best treatment options to be available to me, God's strength in the face of my weakness, good decision-making by Sean and me, peaceful rest, a miraculous recovery, as much time as possible... and whatever else you think might help us. We'll also take cards, positive energy and vibes, your love, and your support. (We don't really need much "stuff" - I do encourage you to make a donation to a cause we love, if you want to send something.)

I know that - once again - everyone is going to feel bad for me, Sean, our families, and my closest friends. I get it, it's our gut reaction to say we're sorry when we hear horrible news. This aggressive cancer is a big ol' jerk. These results are not what we hoped for. And, honestly, the only terminal thing I wanted in my life was the Ph.D. I attained in 2012.

BUT... I'm (a) still fighting hard against this cancer, (b) an incredibly fortunate person, (c) blessed to have 40 fantastic years of living and loving so far, and (d) not giving up on miracles. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I'm seeking to feel grateful for all I have and hopeful for what may come. When I was diagnosed, I asked that you would root for me. I need that now more than ever - your support, your energy, your love, your prayers, your hopefulness, your strength... and your belief that we can still defeat this. Thank you for being on my team.