Life, A Cascading Series of Disappointment

Jenny has cancer.  Terminal cancer.  We learned that in late July. Jenny had  dropped 25 lbs. in the spring without trying.  She had been having vague stomach complaints since October.  As a balm for her concerns, her doctor agreed to do a CT scan for her, but told her they would find nothing.  Jenny wanted to rule out pancreatic cancer, which had recently killed her dad-in the spring of 2019.  Her mother had been sick with lymphoma since February 2020.  The day of the scan, the doctor told Jenny they would get results back in a few days.

When Jenny's phone rang that same afternoon, I was in the living room with Abby, where I was torturing her by playing the Rapping Duke on Youtube. Jenny shouted from the room, "Geoff, get in here, the doctor's on the phone."

"You have a four cm. mass on your pancreas,"  he said. Jenny made a sound like someone had punched her in the stomach.  "There is a spot on your liver. You have a necrotic lymph node. There appear to be spots on the peritoneal lining of your abdomen, and a spot on your lung."  Jenny's reaction, "Oh, my god.  Im going to die," was also my thought.  Jenny was kneeling on the bed, the phone laying there flat, I was pacing the room, my right hand running through my hair.

I had closed the door for the call, but the upstairs is small.  The door may have been slightly ajar, as closing it didn't guarantee it would stay shut.  No matter, Jenny's visceral reaction and my repeated mutterings of shock were certainly overheard by Abby.  I heard her bedroom door slam shut.  I opened my door, and Abby was leaving her room, heading downstairs to see Leiney.

Meanwhile, across town, Omi was terminal.

We went in a few days later for an endoscopic ultrasound at Overlake.  That day the doctor, before the scan, told us it was cancerous.  The scope confirmed.

The Overlake report described a 4.8 cm tumor on the uncinate process of the pancreas. It identified the tumor as operable, noted that the spot on the liver was a hemangioma and not a metastases, confirmed the necrotic lymph node, and metasteses in the peritoneal lining.  If accurate, Jenny could have surgery to remove the tumor.

Through some miracle, we got to see the top specialist in Seattle and the world, Dr. Vincent Picozzi, the next week.  In advance, we got another CT scan from his team.

We met with Picozzi on August 4th.  He confirmed the cancer.  It is stage iv, meaning metastatic.  The growth on her liver identified at Overlake as a hemangioma wasnt a hemangioma.  In fact, there are two spots around 1 cm each on her liver that are metasteses.  The cancer is also in her peritoneal lining.  There is a tiny nodule on her lung.  Chemo, we were told, would begin the next week.  It would be a 48 week regimen, alternating every 8 weeks between gem-abraxane and Folfiri.

There Are No Happy Endings

Chemo was well underway, when I began to become suspicious that Jenny was/is having an affair.  Last week, on Saturday, while in out tent at Lake Ozette, and with Jenny asleep, I went through her phone.  She had a secret texting app.  Sexy photos of herself.  Discussions with a couple of friends making oblique and concrete mentions of the affair.  She had been, for months (that is what she has, so far, admitted, I think much longer, at least back to April 2019), having an affair with a PE teacher.  She had continued it after diagnosis.  

She had him shave her head.  Jennifer Murray had been there and took pictures of the progress.  I saw the pictures on the phone that night. It was wrenching.

She had in February and June gone away with him for weekends, lying  to me about where she was going.  She had reservations for this September 24 and 25 at the Hyatt in Renton.  She claims she was going with her partner in crime, Sheila for a weekend.  That much I might believe, but I am sure their men would be there.

She is dying.  I am staying with her. Caring for her.  Hoping against hope that she beats this.  She still sees him.  Says she loves him.  Says she loves me.  I dont know what to do, but to care for her. Its been 30 years, and I still love her.