A few months ago, after going back on chemo, I decided that I would not do any more chemo until the new stealth drugs are on the market. You see I am on of those pesky outliers, the ones that don't fit the statistical profiles and probabilities. After being on the threshold of death due to cancer treatment on more than one occasion, I decided that I would rather feel good on no treatment than feel bad and possibly die sooner because I was having cancer treatment, if that makes sense.

I am still convinced that my decision is the right one for me. I have been taking Herceptin alone since I discontinued the Xeloda 2 months ago. Statistically Herceptin is only 20% effective if it is not taken with a cytotoxin, but I am betting my life that it is the best course for me.

That being said, on Monday I will go into the CT scanner and learn what has been going on since I made this momentous decision. My tumor markers have never indicated that I have cancer, so the only way we know what is going on is through periodic scans. (I probably have enough radiation in me that if I don't die of this breast cancer I might of some later radiation induced one. It is such a paradox, this disease/treatment.) I am scared. I am scared that we might find the tumors have grown and that my life expectancy is dramatically reduced. I am scared because I have run out of options.

It is one thing to look death in the face when you have a treatment buffer between the two of you. I am afraid of what it is going to be to look death in the face when it is just the two of us. I am trying to tell myself that in reality nothing will have changed; I am still me, my life is still my life, my friends are still my friends. Yet, it will be totally changed in ways I can't and don't want to process yet.

As a behavioral scientist that has worked with cancer patients for many years I know what I have to do, I know what the tasks are before me. I have completed my life review. I am content that I am loved, that my life has had meaning, and that I have done work that has benefited the greater society. I have no regrets and nothing left undone. My "bucket" list is practically nonexistent. I have friends who have been touched by this disease before as loved ones have died; they know what lies ahead and they have promised that I won't be alone when the time comes. I am overwhelmingly blessed.

I also am overwhelmingly greedy! I love my life and I want more of it. I want to float down the river and catch a beautiful little cutthroat trout. I want to watch a Dutch oven turn over and spew its contents all over my driveway as my friends laugh. I want to explore the mountains more and communicate with the wild animals. I want to spare my friends the pain that will eventually come.

I'm not afraid of death. I am not so sanguine about dying of this horrible disease. But mostly I am afraid of having this amazing life that I worked hard all of my life to develop taken away, of not being able to share the wisdom that was so costly to acquire, of not being able to help heal others. As one patient said to me, I will miss being able to smell and touch and see and hear all the things this body makes possible.

I am confident in the decision that I made, but that does not mean that I get a free pass on the emotions that will result from its consequences.