Last week’s oncology check-in at Princess Margaret wasn’t dramatic.
There were no revelations. No turning points. No new language to learn.
And that’s precisely why it mattered.
Cancer care often conditions you to brace for impact. Every appointment feels like it might carry a verdict. But this visit didn’t deliver a sentence or a surprise. It delivered confirmation: that I am still standing where I’m supposed to be.
Clinically, I am doing well. That is the phrase they use. What it means in plain terms is this: I am active, independent, and fully functioning. My performance status remains ECOG 0—the best possible score. It’s not a badge of honour, but it is currency in this system. It keeps doors open. It keeps options alive.
From the outside, I look capable. From the inside, that matters more than most people realize.
Living Inside the Trial
This was my second dose of the trial drug, and the focus of the visit wasn’t whether it’s working yet. It was whether my body is tolerating it.
So far, it is.
I’ve had nausea, but no vomiting. Fatigue comes and goes, sometimes quickly, sometimes without warning. There have been moments of fog. None of this is surprising. None of it has crossed into dangerous territory. Notably, there were no infusion reactions—no allergic responses, no acute events.
In fact, the team is already discussing whether to remove Benadryl from future infusions. That detail might seem small, but it carries meaning. It signals confidence. Comfort. A sense that my system is handling what’s being introduced to it.
When you’re inside a clinical trial, tolerance is half the equation. You don’t get to test effectiveness if your body rejects the process.
The Numbers That Didn’t Shout
Bloodwork came back unremarkable. That word does a lot of heavy lifting in oncology.
It means my electrolytes are stable. My blood counts are holding. My liver—despite everything it has endured—is not showing signs of acute stress from the treatment. There is no lab-based reason to slow down, pause, or step off course.
ECGs tell a similar story. Sinus bradycardia. A slow heart rate. Normal rhythm. Normal intervals.
This isn’t new. It’s consistent with how my body has behaved for months now. The machines keep confirming what I already know from lived experience: my system is calm, controlled, and not in distress.
In cancer care, stability is not neutrality. It’s permission to continue.
What This Visit Was—and Wasn’t
This appointment was not about outcomes.
It was not about shrinking tumours or falling markers or declaring progress. That moment comes later—January 12th—when imaging and biopsy will decide whether this drug earns the right to stay in my body.
This visit was about readiness.
- Am I well enough to keep going?
- Is my body cooperating?
- Are there any early warning signs we’re missing?
The answers, for now, are reassuring.
That doesn’t mean optimism. It means alignment.
Holding the Line
There’s a strange discipline required in this phase. You don’t celebrate stability, but you learn to respect it. You don’t read meaning into every good day, and you don’t catastrophize every bad one.
You stay inside the plan.
This check-in didn’t move the story forward. It held it steady. And sometimes, in cancer, that is the most important work being done.
- I’m still here.
- I’m still eligible.
- I’m still moving toward the next scan with my footing intact.
For now, that’s enough.