Life, and the Worst Word
Or: Why would you name your newsletter "The Incurable"?
Welcome to The Incurable, the newsletter for sharing updates about this new phase of my life called “incurable cancer.” I’ll also talk about life—before, during, and after cancer. And don’t be surprised if photos of miniature schnauzers, shoes, angels who work in health care, and other joy nuggets make an appearance, too.
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To get caught up on where we are today:
One week ago, I shuffled into the oncology department of Ninewells Hospital in Dundee, Scotland, doing my best impression of a hobbled tortoise. I carried on my back, like an unwieldy shell, months of pain that had intensified to the point that I could barely walk, stand, sit, or take a deep breath. The day before, I had an MRI to see if we could figure out what was happening in my aching, throbbing, burning, back. Now I was meeting with the oncologist to get the results.
And what results: my T5 vertebra has collapsed, a tumor is compressing my spinal cord, and several vertebrae show sign of bone marrow changes—all of which points to secondary cancer in my spine. And then he quietly said, “This is classified as incurable.”
If you have a tumor compressing your spinal cord, it turns out there is not a lot of leisure time right away to sit around and think about what you’ve just learned about why your back hurts. The most urgent step is to try to shrink the tumor and relieve pressure on my spinal cord. The oncologist had the radiotherapy team ready to do the prep immediately, and I started intensive radiotherapy treatment the next day—five sessions over seven days. My final treatment is today.
There is much we still don’t know. I have a CT scan on Friday, and our hope is that this scan will provide helpful information about the scope of what I’m facing—and we pray it also reveals information that points to many robust treatment options.
And a note on this word incurable: why do I keep using it—even in the name of this newsletter—and at the risk of sounding like Vizzini in The Princess Bride?
Because I know that incurable is not the same as untreatable. I know that incurable does not come with a timeline. I know that incurable is, for now, a placeholder until we know more, a classification, a description—a hard word but not the worst word.
And while we wait for the CT scan and blood tests results and hoped-for treatment options, I am clear about what I am fighting for: the gift of time.
I am not fighting for my life. Jesus has already fought for my life—and won. No cancer can undo his victory and gift of eternal life. Yes, I might have incurable cancer. But I also have incurable life—I had life before cancer, I have life now with incurable cancer, and I will have life after cancer.
Joy Kernels
This week I have had a deep kernel of joy, which has been a gift. I’ve felt that joy flicker and spark in different ways, for which I am so grateful. I’ll share two of them here with you. One is my bright yellow sunshine-y shoes, which make me smile even when I’m wearing them in the scanner and radiation machine and oncology office. The other is this recording of one of my favorite songs, which has been in my mind most mornings when I wake up: