2016 Was…Severely Mixed
With everyone posting about 2016 on social media, I had my usual curmudgeonly response to not participate in the popular trend of the day. But then an old friend reminded me of the blog I kept in 2015 that ended in 2016, and the memories came flooding in. 2016 started with a clean bill of health for Geri who finished cancer treatment and ended with the start of the Trump era. Talk about a roller coaster.
I’ve met a lot of people in the past 10 years, so I thought I’d post my Caringbridge blog that documented our experience. After re-reading some of it this morning, I realized I wasn’t thinking about ICE, Greenland, Venezuela, or anything else but our experience of surviving something horrible.
It’s obviously a happy ending here, but if reading about the experience of cancer treatment along with some life observations isn’t your thing, I totally get that. And of course, some of you read this while it was happening at the time and may not want to go back through that. But re-reading this gave me a few moments of perspective. When I hear about ICE killing and terrorizing, my chest tightens up in much the same way it did when we got the lab results of Geri’s cancer. But remembering friends, family, and community that got us through cancer gave me a glimmer of hope.
Part 1
I started writing as soon as I felt the panic of the possibility that Geri wasn’t ok. Her first appointment was in the middle of a medical and hospital complex we knew very well and where Geri works.
Journal entry by Scott Okamoto — Mar 31, 2015
Fair warning- This blog will be non-censored and filled with personal details and thoughts. It is as much for me as it is for updating everyone the latest news of Geri’s cancer. It still feels weird writing those words.
A couple of months ago, Geri asked me to feel her right breast. I’m sure you know that this was not a rare request, but she said there was a lump that hurt. In my mind, there was no reason to be concerned. The women in Geri’s family are known to be hard-drinking, eat everything, smoking country women who outlived multiple husbands well into their 90’s. As a parent, we constantly worry about our kids. their health, potential injuries, crossing the street, going to friends’ houses, etc. And being a Japanese American male from a line of heart disease, diabetes, depression, and high blood pressure, I always assumed any health-related problems would be mine.
The lump stopped hurting and seemed to be going away after Geri’s period but then returned right before we left for Mammoth. We made a mental note to have it checked when we got back. And last Friday, Geri went in and had a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy. This was the email I sent to a few people as I processed everything:
“So, Geri doesn’t know I’m writing this, but she has a lump in her right breast. I’m on my way to pick her up from her biopsy. So far, we know nothing about it. She didn’t sound too worried just now after talking to a few doctors. But, being a typical writer, I started writing when I got home this morning. We haven’t told the kids yet, so please don’t say anything to them or anyone else yet. Just letting the inner circle know what’s up. Thanks.
It’s all about this one block in Pasadena, between California and Bellefontaine. I dropped off Geri to get a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy for a lump in her right breast. We don’t know anything, yet. It could be a benign cyst. It could be much worse. Such are life’s cruel mysteries we encounter between our birth and inevitable demise.
I had no idea how long the appointment would take, so Geri had me get the truck washed and then drop it off at Nishikawa Auto Service just up the street. Geri works on all of their teeth there, so we can extend this block image a half-block north. When I dropped off the car, there were 8 cars lined up outside the office with a crowded waiting area. I walked in and told them I was dropping off Dr. Geri’s car. The woman smiled and said they were expecting us. Joe, the owner came out and asked some questions about the car and Geri. They love her there.
I walked to Starbucks to get coffee for Geri and me. Walked over to where I had dropped her off and sat at a table in the shade. Geri texted me. Mammogram and ultrasound were done. She was waiting for the biopsy. Told me to go home instead of waiting there. I walked south and noticed the waiting room where I used to pick up my grandma shortly before she went into a home. She would get heart palpitations and call 911. The ambulance would take her here, and I would be tasked with picking her up. She would be embarrassed that I had to come get her, always complaining that she wasn’t allowed to drive herself. I think she felt using 911 was her way of protesting her license being revoked due to diminishing driving skills. One of the last lucid conversations I had with her was here. She always gave me $5 for gas or something “good to eat.”
Just a couple hundred feet south is the office of Dr. Jick, our OBGYN for all three kids. It was here we had three sets of consultations. Three rounds of ultrasounds. One round of “high-risk” pregnancy with Owen. A scary diagnosis of a “2-vessel umbilical cord,” which carried all sorts of developmental risks. In this office we imagined the best and worst scenarios of birth and life. In fact, if we can back up 50 feet or so to another office, we had the amniocentesis to determine if Owen would have Down’s Syndrome or any other issues. As you all know, he did not. But, I really hate these kinds of mysteries.
At the end of the block, I am now facing the building where Geri owns and runs the family dental practice. I look up at the row of second-story windows and think of how successful Geri has been. Behind those windows, 25 people depend on her to run the business that employs them, and those 25 people would do anything for her. Hundreds of patients love her as their dentist. We encounter her patients in malls, restaurants, and grocery stores, and they all seem so excited to see her. I think that’s weird. In a good way, obviously. But that’s also Geri.
So now we wait. She just called me to pick her up. If you’re reading this, it’s because we know you and trust you and love you, and we depend on you in times like this. We know we don’t have to ask anything and you know you don’t have to do anything but be you. For now. I guess, I’m inviting you to wait with us together. Love you.”
They told us we would have results on Monday or Tuesday. I know such are the limitations of technology and the economics of lab staffing, but those three full days were torture. We decided not to tell the kids until we knew anything. In between bursting into tears at random moments, I tried to hold onto hope that this was the 80% of women who have non-malignant lumps in their breast. Geri’s mom had had a cyst removed a few years ago. Geri is young and in good health. But as someone with a wild imagination, I couldn’t hold back images of crying children, hospital beds and the ultimate nightmare, funerals. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. Fortunately, the kids were pretty busy all weekend, so Geri and I suffered alone.
I could barely look at her for fear of crying.
And then Monday afternoon, she called with the worst news. It’s cancer. It’s aggressive. Numbness. Shock. The kids were home. I cried discreetly all afternoon. That was yesterday.
I am terrified. We will tell the kids today. It’s something no one should have to do. Something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I told traci last night that if it were just Geri and me, it would be hard, I would still be a mess, but having the kids makes everything exponentially more weighted. We are a tight family. And right now, the thought of potentially losing one of us is impossible to consider.
The surgeon moved the Friday appointment up to tomorrow (Wed) at 4. I hope to have some better news then.
After some darkness, a little hope
Journal entry by Scott Okamoto — Mar 31, 2015
It’s been a bad day. Geri went to work and the kids were home on a “pupil-free” day. The mind is a powerful thing. I started to imagine the worst scenarios. 2cm seems so big. I imagined cancer flowing through Geri’s body and... It wasn’t good. I took Owen to piano lessons and did some research. As it turns out 2cm is at the small end of grading cancer. Depending on whether there is cancer in lymph nodes, Geri likely has stage 1 or 2 cancer. Very treatable.
It’s amazing how a little bit of information can ease the pain. I have had a tight chest, difficulty breathing, and light-headed ness all day. That little information made me feel a little better.
Last thought on this first full day
Journal entry by Scott Okamoto — Mar 31, 2015
Getting cancer, no matter how it turns out, is a kind of death or huge shift. Your life as you once knew it is forever altered. The body is altered. Your perspective is altered. I was annoyed at Pasadena traffic last week. I complained about it. I would give anything to go back to that life where Pasadena traffic took up so much of my mind. Right now, my mind, body, and soul are consumed with the urgency of getting Geri through this.
And we told the kids. They took it so well. It helps that they don’t know much about cancer. I told them they need to do their best to keep their lives as normal as possible. I told them this was treatable, and that many women have survived. They asked some questions. Owen seemed worried. I’m most worried about him. He turns 8 next week, and seeing his mom go through cancer treatment will be tough. It will be tough for us all.
I am still fighting tears at random moments, and my heart feels heavy. Geri says she feels the same way. When she is ready, she will write her thoughts. Maybe after the appointment with the surgeon tomorrow afternoon.
Journal entry by Scott Okamoto — Apr 1, 2015
Just finished the consult with the surgeon. Geri’s cancer is stage 2 with no signs of spreading to lymph nodes. The treatment options are very non-invasive because her cancer is called “triple-negative.” That means it isn’t hormonal or HER2 based. It is aggressive, but usually responds well to chemo. The plan is now to do pre-op chemo to shrink the tumor, and then lumpectomy. In many cases, the tumor is completely gone at the end of chemo.
I can’t express how relieved we are. The dr is extremely confident in the treatment plan and is more concerned about the cosmetic results than the medical.
Deep breath. I need a drink.
Journal entry by Scott Okamoto — Apr 2, 2015
When traci suggested a small get-together yesterday morning, I was hesitant. We were supposed to have our first consultation with the surgeon that afternoon. What if it was bad news? That would be one depressing hangout. As of yesterday morning, we knew the tumor was 2 cm and was malignant. I was in day five of my worst nightmare. Every waking moment was painful. Our friend, Jen Lee, with whom I have a gig next week, has a song called, “Senseless.” It basically says that without “you” my life is senseless. I always liked the song and understood it intellectually. But it really rang true for me in the past five days. Life made no sense to me without Geri. As my best friend and life partner, lover, mother of our children, keeper of the family dental practice (though this was a lesser identity in the bigger picture), imagining life without her made zero sense. And then the prospect of losing one or both of her breasts was hard to imagine. Losing any body parts is such a tragic concept.
In any case, I was in bad shape. I would burst into tears while doing dishes or driving somewhere. I almost lost it when Owen, from the backseat, asked if Mom was going to be ok, and wanted to know why she got cancer. He wanted answers to things I couldn’t tell him because I didn’t know. Every waking moment was painful, and I had difficulty breathing, eating, and sleeping. I would finally fall asleep and dream of whatever, only to wake up to the nightmare again. All of this was interrupted by the texts, emails, calls and visits from friends. In those messages and moments of love, I could begin to see that life could conceivably be OK no matter what happened. You all have no idea how much your support means to us. And now I’m crying again.
So, as I wrote yesterday, we went to see the surgeon. As soon as she started talking, I could feel myself start to relax. We learned more about the cancer. The tumor was small and completely identified. Treatment was simple and very non-invasive. So many of you expressed your belief in Geri’s badass-ness, that cancer couldn’t possibly beat her. I could totally understand that feeling, but I also know that cancer can beat anyone. But Dr. Shen said this kind of cancer treated in these ways had a 90% survival rate. By the end of the consultation, I could breathe again. The tightness in my chest was gone. I could imagine life again. Chemo won’t be easy by any stretch of the imagination. And there is always the lurking possibility of something new or so-far unseen popping up. But, hope can be a powerful thing. And we have a good deal of it now.
And then they came. traci had put the word out for an impromptu gathering to support Geri. So many friends showed up from near and far. My brother drove up from Irvine. Daren came from Claremont. So many loved ones came to give us a hug, and, as it happened, to celebrate our good news. I never imagined a cancer party could be so happy.I had a lump in my throat as each person came through the door. And I teared up with every hug. I tried to give a toast where I talked about the journey of the previous 5 days leading up to that moment, but I started to break down when I thanked everyone for their messages of support. And I’m crying again.
We don’t know what the future holds. We make plans. We dream. We hope. But I can say without a doubt that our friends can always count on us to be there for them. Sean thanked me last night for opening our house and letting everyone into our tough time. I was in awe of that. For those who were able to be there, and we got lots of love from those who couldn’t, it was a natural thing for them. Even if it had been bad news, they would have been there. I don’t know if I will ever be able to return this amount of love and support to everyone. It was overwhelming. It sounds so weak and insufficient to say thank you to all of you. But, thank you.
So we begin cancer treatment. Geri will have one more test today, an MRI. Then she meets with the oncologist Friday or early next week. The plan is for 6 full rounds of chemo. She announced last night that she is dyeing her hair bright purple. Why? Because fucking cancer. And she will likely lose it all in the coming weeks.
OK, Team Geri. Let’s do this.
Skipping ahead to the last pre-chemo post the finish up Part 1
Cosmic thoughts to begin this final week of waiting
Journal entry by Scott Okamoto — Apr 20, 2015
None of you would ever publicly say something like this, but so many of you, myself included, have expressed it. It goes something like this: There are so many bad people who deserve to get cancer. Why do so many great people like Geri (or insert loved one) have to get cancer? For some there is a theological impetus for such musing. How can a loving god let someone like Rush Limbaugh or Ann Coulter be healthy and someone like Geri get cancer? For others there is just a cruel cosmic irony that we’ll never understand. And with the seeming exponential increase in numbers of women getting breast cancer, there is always the question of environment and/or diet. We eat so much shit pumped with antibiotics, preservatives, and processed sugars, it’s easy to wonder if the answer lies therein. I’ve wondered, myself.
This is not a pity party. I’ve expressed enough grief and angst here. And yet, I know we who know and love Geri are so fortunate that this is treatable. We didn’t get news that she had been killed in an accident. She hasn’t been diagnosed with anything incurable. Despite the scary circumstances, there is a tremendous amount of hope. Some of the first people to reach out to us have been friends who have recently lost loved ones to cancer or to other circumstances. Their understanding of the fear, the uncertainty, and even the hope has humbled and inspired us. So, even when I’m feeling down or depressed, which I think is natural in these circumstances, I am fully mindful that things could be so much worse, and I continue to grieve completely with those who received a constant string of bad news from doctors and labs until the end. And we have always been mindful, as best we could, of the cruel nature of the world and its people. So much tragedy and death every day. The fact that we have so much love from family and friends is ultimately a reason to celebrate our lives, even if they were to end today.
But, fortunately for us, life will not end today. At least not due to cancer. As I type these words I am picturing a meteor plummeting through space with my name on it. And I will be extra careful driving the kids to school tomorrow. But I will do so knowing full-well that I am blessed. Geri is blessed. We have all of you.
Details: Poor Geri had to have a colonoscopy last week. It was purely precautionary, but it sucked. I’ll spare you all the gory details of the 24 hour fast and cleanse she had to endure. I will say that I have now seen high resolution pictures of Geri’s colon. And I really wish I had not. Everything was fine. In the end.
We find out tomorrow or Tuesday if Geri has the BRCA gene. This will determine if she should get a mastectomy after all and a hysterectomy. Apparently women with the BRCA gene/s have a high likelihood of getting cancer in those parts. Geri has zero family history with cancer, so I’m not too worried. But, having already experienced bad news, we are ready for whatever results come. At this point, you would be completely blameless for trying to picture Geri with Double-D’s. Just for a moment, though.
She has an appointment with a City of Hope guru of triple negative breast cancer tomorrow. Just for information. Thanks to our supplemental Aflac plan, we can afford the nearly $1000 consultation fee. Then on Wednesday, we meet with the last oncologist who is on our insurance plan. And then chemotherapy. Geri has an appointment on Friday to get her hair dyed purple. Pictures will follow for sure.
I’m in awe of how many of you are reading this blog. Every post has received around 100 views. Thank you for enduring this journey with us. Oh, and for you grammar-minded folks, I don’t edit this. I type, I fix things as I go, but I know I’ve missed a lot of grammar/style mistakes. This is all first draft stream of consciousness. I’m trying to record my thoughts as they come.
Come by for drinks this week. It’s Geri’s last stand. And there is a lot of vodka and a new bottle of Templeton.
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