Williams - A series of catastrophes & miracles: a true story of love, science, and cancer

Published by National Geographic Partners, LLC

Copyright 2016 Mary Elizabeth Williams. All rights reserved. Reproduction of the whole or any part of the contents without written permission from the publisher is prohibited.

NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC and Yellow Border are trademarks of the National Geographic Society, used under license.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Williams, Mary Elizabeth, (Journalist), author.

Title: A series of catastrophes and miracles : a true story of love, science, and cancer / Mary Elizabeth Williams.
Description: Washington, D.C. : National Geographic, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015033584 | ISBN 9781426216336 (hardback)

Subjects: LCSH: Williams, Mary Elizabeth, (Journalist),Health. | Metastasis. | CancerPatientsBiography. | Cancer in womenPatientsBiography. | WomenHealth and hygiene. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY
/ Women. | HEALTH & FITNESS / Diseases / Cancer.
Classification: LCC RC269.5 .W55 2016 | DDC 362.19699/40092dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015033584

Since 1888, the National Geographic Society has funded more than 12,000 research, exploration, and preservation projects around the world. National Geographic Partners distributes a portion of the funds it receives from your purchase to National Geographic Society to support programs including the conservation of animals and their habitats.

National Geographic Partners, LLC
1145 17th Street NW
Washington, DC 20036-4688 USA

Become a member of National Geographic and activate your benefits today at natgeo.com/jointoday.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact National Geographic Books Special Sales:

For rights or permissions inquiries, please contact National Geographic Books Subsidiary Rights:

Interior design: Melissa Farris

eBook ISBN: 978-1-4262-1634-3

v3.1

For Debbie

This is a work of nonfiction. I have tried throughout to present scientific facts and history as accurately as possible and to the best of my abilityalbeit as someone with a decidedly unscientific background.

For the narrative aspects, I have relied heavily on the notes, date books, and journals I kept, my medical records, and the stories I published throughout the experience. Ive also depended on the very generous cooperation of many of the individuals who were present for and participated in the events depicted. I am exceedingly grateful to them for letting me interview them, for giving me access to their own journals and personal stories, and for helping me reconstruct many scenes and conversations.

There are no composite characters here. Everyone within has a real-life counterpart. I have, however, changed names and identifying details of certain individuals to protect their privacy. I have also in a few instances condensed conversations and eventsmostly involving doctor visitsthat took place over more than one episode into single scenes for the sake of clarity.

There is no doubt that everyone involved in this tale has his or her version of how it all went down. This is mine.

Portions of this story have appeared, in slightly different format, in Salon and in the New York Times.

January 10, 2012

Its a bad time for the phone to ring. Jeff is already down the hall at his caregiver group; Lucy and Bea are downstairs doing arts and crafts with the other kids in Noogieland. My own support group is just about to start, and our facilitator Marlena is strict that outside interruptionsand latecomersare not tolerated. I glance at the phone and see that the call is from an unfamiliar number. Do I answer it and risk banishment, or spend the next two hours going crazy wondering who it was fromespecially today, of all days?

The family started coming to Gildas Club in the fallright after the rediagnosisand since then weve grown to treasure our Tuesday nights here. Its a weekly source of stability and support in the chaos of my cancer. We love the unexpected community that my disease has provided us, and the raucous laughter we always wind up sharing within these walls. We love the friends whove become family over the past few months. But sometimes this little clubhouse is a hard place to be. Eventually, everybody leaves itand there are only a few ways out. The hoped-for option is by getting better.

I have a lot to talk about tonight. This morning, I had examined my shampoo bottle as I washed my hair and wondered if I would make it to the bottom of it. Lately I weigh the practicality of renewing my New Yorker subscription, and the uncertainty of making plans for summer vacation when its only early January. I wonder if I will finish a canister of oatmeal, or if my bottle of Tabasco will outlast my presence in this world. These are the things I think about these days, because I have Stage 4 melanomaa condition that typically grants people like me only a miserly handful of months to live. These are the things I had contemplated today before going for my first set of scans since starting my clinical trial. The ones that will tell me if the tumors in my lung and soft tissue are shrinking, or if Im closer to dying the painful, merciless death of late-stage cancer.

I am now three months into the trial. Tomorrow is my childrens shared birthday. Lucy will be twelve and Bea will be eight. Theyre so in sync, they even came into the world on the same date, four years apart. Whatever else happens next, we will mark another milestone. We will celebrate another year.

I have my next treatment in two days. The side effects havent been too debilitatingthe word I keep using is tolerable. Im exhausted all the time, have an itchy rash, get dizzy spells, and my sense of taste is off. But I get to keep whats left of my hair and not throw up, so whos complaining? Especially when the tumor on my backthe tender purple lump that rests right under my bra straphas been looking smaller since the first treatment. Dr. Wolchok says its very encouraging, though Im trying not to get my hopes up. People with multiple distant metastases dont usually get happy endings. We usually just get endings. We get doctors asking us if were in pain, an unspoken yet dangling from their lips. We get the understanding that the cancer could be dancing anywhere in our bodies, eating our organs.

Earlier today, I had guzzled down a jug of disgusting orange fluid and Id held my breath as technicians took pictures of my insides, wondering what they would reveal about the monster within me. Whatever happens, Id told Jeff when I called him afterward, I can probably try to talk them into operating on my lung. I wasnt sure I believed it. The lung tumor is in a delicate place, and if my condition is worsening, my options are diminishing.

Thank God Debbie has been doing okay. Shes been on Abraxane since September, and this round of chemo seems to be going well, even if the fuzzy new Chia Pet growth of hair shed finally grown back over the summer is gone once again. I have one eyelash left, shed told me the last time I called. Its driving me crazy. She doesnt know how long her course will be this time. The doctors keep saying they have to wait and see how shes doing, how her CA 125 numbers are.