Yesterday morning, I got a text at 6:32. Usually, a text that early means it’s a family member or friend on the East Coast who still doesn’t understand how time zones work, so I ignored it for a few minutes while I tried to convince myself I was awake. Tugboat was already staring at me. He was waiting patiently, or at least as patiently as Tugboat is capable of waiting, for one of two things: breakfast or a trip outside to greet all the early morning runners who he remains convinced are outside specifically to see him. Eventually, I picked up my phone. “You have a new test result from MD Anderson waiting for you in MyChart.” Well, shit. I knew exactly what it was.
This was the Signatera test I’d been waiting for. It’s the same blood test that first told me there was still cancer somewhere in my body when every scan said otherwise. It looks for tiny amounts of DNA in my bloodstream matching my tumor. I’ve spent the last couple of months waiting for this particular result because, for the first time since starting the clinical trial, it might actually tell us whether all these pills, infusions, blood draws, and 184-mile drives to Houston are doing anything.
Suddenly I was very awake. I’m not an especially patient person, but I still sat there for a few seconds before opening the app. I took a breath, sat up in bed, and prepared myself for whatever number was waiting on the other side. Then I opened it. The number had gone down. Not dramatically. Not to zero. But down. I stared at it for a few seconds because apparently my brain needed some time to catch up.
It was good news. Really good news. For the first time since starting this trial, I have an actual data point suggesting the treatment may be doing exactly what we hoped it would do. That’s all it is for now. One data point. It doesn’t tell me that the tumors are shrinking. It doesn’t tell me the cancer is gone. There are still scans and blood tests and plenty of opportunities for MD Anderson to poke holes in me before we know any of that. But after months of watching that number go in the wrong direction, it finally went in the right one. I’ll take that.
Naturally, my first thought was that I should celebrate. Unfortunately, it wasn’t even 7:00 in the morning. Nothing was open, and even if I still drank bourbon with any regularity, which I really don’t, 6:45 on a Friday morning seemed a little aggressive. So I sent a few texts instead. Some went to the people I knew were already awake. Others went to the people I knew had been anxiously waiting for this result but inexplicably refuse to read the blog I created specifically so I wouldn’t have to send everyone individual cancer updates.
Then I took Tugboat outside. He peed. We walked over to the Carpenter Hotel and I got coffee. Then I dropped him off at daycare and went about my Friday. That was it. And somewhere during all of that, I realized how perfect that morning actually was.
A couple of months ago, I wrote about wanting more Tuesdays. More boring mornings. More normal workouts. More days that are just days. Friday morning was one of those. I got good news about cancer, took my fat little corgi outside, bought a cup of coffee, dropped him off at daycare, and moved on with my life.
There were no fireworks. No giant celebration. No movie soundtrack playing in the background. Just a normal Friday morning. And after everything that’s happened over the last couple of years, normal feels pretty fucking great.
So now I stay the course. I keep taking the pills. I keep showing up for the infusions. I keep working hard, eating well, going to the gym, trying to stay positive, and making that 184-mile drive back and forth to Houston. The number is .011. I want .000. Hopefully I’ll get there.
But yesterday, once again, it felt like I’m headed in the right direction. For now, that’s enough. I’ve got a life to go enjoy.