Today’s title was brought to you by the British Ministry of Information.  Designed to be reassuring during uncertain times, it was the motto on posters created during World War II.  When I saw it on the front cover of a journal at Barnes & Noble, I knew that a) it was particularly appropriate to my current circumstances; and b) I had to have the journal.

I was supposed to receive my biopsy results last Tuesday, but because my surgeon’s staff leaves something to be desired, the results were not in my chart during my office visit.  Unfortunately, it was too late in the day to call the pathology department at that point.  I don’t know who was more upset — the naturally taciturn but obviously empathetic surgeon, or me.

Either way, the dear man called me around 9:00 the following morning — on 09/09/09.  Weird, but true.

And the results are . . .  drumroll please . . .  diffuse large B-cell lymphoma with a KI-67 proliferative index of more than 95%.  This is a very aggressive lymphoma with a less than stellar prognosis.

Since I received the news, my social calendar has been outrageously full of appointments.  Not only are there a myriad of doctors to see — the nephrologist I adore, my off-the-charts-amazing family doctor, the radiation oncologist, the hematologist — but there are also a raft of tests to be done and other preparations to make.  (I need a gallium scan, head-to-toe CT scans, a bone marrow biopsy, more blood work, and heaven only knows what else.)  In addition, I got my hair cut short so there will be less to clean up when I lose it.  I moved up my regular dental appointment so that my teeth will be sparkling and in good order before I start chemo.  I am trying to purchase or order anything I may need or want during chemo — lots of new pajamas, slippers, vitamin water, a mini lap desk I can carry with me, turbans for my bald head, etc.

Yesterday was my first visit  to the cancer clinic.  It was pretty stressful.  First, someone was supposed to call and ask me to come in 30 minutes later than originally scheduled.  Unfortunately, she dropped the ball, so I had to sit nervously in the waiting room.  Fortunately, I found a volunteer — a kind university student — and made him talk to me so that I could overcome my jitters.  Next, I met with the “primary nurse,” Kim.  She was great — funny, down-to-earth, knowledgeable and reassuring.  After that, I saw the radiation oncologist.  He was very nice and seemed extraordinarily knowledgeable.  When he didn’t have an answer, he told me so, but told me I should ask the hematologist when I see her on Thursday.  Unfortunately, at the end of the appointment, he explained that because of my lupus, and particularly because I have so many skin manifestations, we will not be able to use radiation to fight this thing.  Because this is such an aggressive cancer, I am disappointed to be losing one of our tools.  However, everything happens for a reason, and I am grateful to have such a knowledgeable radiation oncologist.

My astounding friends have already been incredibly supportive.  One friend has been over to start cleaning and organizing everything in my house.  Holy mackerel!  I should have had cancer a long time ago!! ( Actually, this friend is so astounding that she has offered to do this for me on many occasions.  It took cancer for me to accept — not for her to offer.)  Another friend is soldiering through the pain of reliving her mother’s recent cancer death so that she can prepare a gift of things I will need but don’t yet know about.  Yet another phenomenal woman stopped by my house with a card and gift ON HER WAY TO THE HOSPICE to visit her mother, who is dying of ovarian cancer.  I feel amazingly loved and well cared-for.  Most of all, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  If the love, kindness and generosity that are flowing my way can’t beat this cancer, nothing can.

And if all else fails, keep calm and carry on.