You Can Count On Me Like One, Two, Three

When Abby was in 3rd or 4th grade, she and a friend had signed up to sing in the end of the year talent show at TOPS.  They were going to perform Bruno Mars' ode to friendship, Count on Me.  Abby's friend was stuck in a soccer tourney, and didn't make the show.  But Abby, introverted as she is, walked up on the stage and performed the song by herself.  It still gives me goosebumps remembering her standing in front of the full gym, standing on a stage, the room dark for the performance, and the spotlight on this tiny little girl, her singing showing a belief in friendship I  hope she holds forever.  Also, there was irony in her singing alone, "You can count on me like one, two, three" in what should have been a duet. The kid is the definition of pluck.


Yesterday a friend of Jenny's reached out to her to see if Jenny would be interested in using their beach house on Whidbey.  She was. She texted Abby to invite her--it would be just the two of them--but Abby didn't answer.  I asked Jenny if she had spoken with Abby (you know, asked her directly)--and she hadn't.  She was too afraid to knock on her door and ask her, because she was certain Abby would invoke her favorite word when asked if she wanted to go with her---no.  

Eventually, I went and asked Abby.  She, shockingly, didn't say no.  She had some meetings in the afternoon for acting, but was otherwise up for it.  This is a shift.  Abby and I have had endless discussions about the fact her mother is sick and may die, and the importance of working to improve the relationship.  Even acknowledging that the complaints of Abby about her mom have validity, I am so worried she will feel guilt over her bitterness toward Jenny should Jenny pass, I have explicitly discussed it with Abby.  Having finally found a therapist she clicks with in the last few weeks, I am hoping Abby is addressing some of her issues around her feelings.

Jenny reached out from the beach house last night, gleeful.  Abby was cuddling her--that hasn't happened in the teen years. Jenny also reported that Abby was a chatterbox--all the way to Whidbey.  This is a marked change, one for the good.I hope they do it more. They are becoming friends again, and that is great news for Abby, for Jenny, for the family.

I am almost paralyzed with fear, knowing Thursday, which brings Jenny's scan, is quickly upon us.  I have looked for hope, reading journal article after journal article, to tell me to "move along lad, nothing to see here." I found one article out of hundred that holds that CA 19-9 by itself is a poor predicator of disease progression.  Picozzi is one of the authors of said article.  OTOH, I have found articles--literally dozens and dozens of them that say precisely the opposite.  Picozzi, et al, believe that along with other biomarkers, CA19-9 is a good predictor.  It was a study with a small sample--people appear to die to quickly to have very large cohorts--so there is that.  Studies that look retrospectively, looking at broad swaths of data of hundreds of patients draw the opposite conclusion.  All the studies have serious problems, both small samllple size and the way different organizations report data, make it all kind of questionable.

I had an email exchange with a high school friend--an old high school friend, I'm not Matt Gaetz--who was Picozzi's lead nurse and who told me that despite my desire, Picozzi, even at this date, will give no clear prognosis. I get that he isn't Zoltar, that he can't predict the future.  But FFS, he handles 100s of pancreatic cancer patients each year,


untold thousands over the last 20 years.  When he started, oncologists largely wouldn't treat this malady, believing it to be pointless. He got all comers, because he treated them.  He must, given this breadth of experience, have some idea where this is going.  He must have some pattern recognition.  

Not knowing is a form of torture in and of itself.  Jenny doesn't want to know, but I do. She has even welcomed a meeting without her so that I can talk to the doctor more frankly.  I think, given how harried and behind he is every time we see him, that such a meeting isn't going to happen.

I don't want her to suffer. She is. I don't want this to kill her. It's going to.  I fucking hate everything about this.  I can't stand feeling so utterly helpless while her life wanes.  It makes no sense to me why or how she could have this illness, why SHE has to suffer.  Fuck the problems in our relationship. She has done great things in this world, changed the lives of untold numbers of lives.  I have seen it myself.  She has forced, by persistence and force of will, the better treatment of children she works with, and better behavior by teachers.  Life isn't fair, I live that. But this isn't merely unfair, it is mindboggling, horrific, hellish.

I update a given journal entry throughout the day I am posting, therefore your mileage may vary.




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