Tuesday August 26, 2025
I’m vacillating.
Between understanding digestion post-Whipple —
And praying for low-grade dysplasia.
No invasive cancer.
Saw the surgeon yesterday — the final pre-op tests, meetings, etc.
He did his job. Didn’t promise anything.
We all hope it’s not cancer.
And if it is, we have to do chemo.
OK.
I will have digestive issues.
No ifs, ands, or buts.
And I may have chronic fatigue.
OK.
And I won’t be able to eat out for a long time.
OK.
And my bowels may not work right for a year.
OK.
Imagine chemo on top of that….
OK.
Most people who have the Whipple are then sent to chemo.
Or they do chemo first, to shrink the tumor before surgery.
The eating and the diabetes are a secondary issue.
So there’s this weird guilt I carry —
For worrying about digestion, food and insulin
Instead of being grateful.
That we caught it so early.
That there’s a real chance:
No chemo. No cancer.
I have to remember that.
I have to keep remembering that.
All the sayings come flooding back:
You’re young.
It’s been five years since your last treatment.
You’re in relatively good health.
You’re strong.
You’re not 85. There’s a difference.
It’s a small cyst. Less than 2 cm.
If it is cancer, I’ll do what I did last time.
Maybe FOLFIRINOX again.
Maybe Xeloda and Abraxane.
Xeloda — that was the pill my mother was on.
It gets overwhelming.
Xeloda was the last pill she took before she said enough.
Strange memories come flooding through —
Things I haven’t thought of in decades.
We pray for high-grade dysplasia.
One week from today.
Get the f*cker out of me already
Meredith's Musings 
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