Cancer Update for June 20, 2026

 
Despite the fact that her last chemo treatment lowered her CA-19-9 results, Peggy told Marc, her oncologist, on Tuesday that she’s done taking chemo. That scared me, but when I later tried to talk to her about it, she said, “Don’t try to make me feel guilty,” so I stopped talking. Marc said ending treatment meant that there was no reason to keep her next appointment with him or to take anymore blood tests. As we were leaving, he said, “Go out and enjoy one another.” I took his words to mean, “Try to be happy today because you’ll be dead in six months.”

Prior to seeing Marc, Peggy saw her internist, and initiated the formal process for ending her life. He also put her in touch with a supportive organization called End of Life Choices (https://eolcoregon.org/), and she has twice spoken with a representative.

Of course, we’re still hoping that the new pancreatic cancer drug will become available before it’s too late. Marc is on the last step on the application process, but, unfortunately, each step has many parts, and this step has ten, the final step being that a representative of the drug manufacturer must fly to Oregon to evaluate the clinic. Why, when people are dying for want of a drug, this is necessary, I don’t know. Peggy will be the first person at the Willamette Valley Cancer Institute to receive the new drug, and the clinic’s 29 other oncologists are asking Marc to handle the application process for their patients. Didn’t those other end-stage patients know of the new drug, and weren’t they demanding that their own doctors apply for it?

Because her last chemo was two weeks ago, Peggy is feeling much better despite considerable pain. She attended the meeting of her button club on Monday, and she’s now out washing another segment of the backyard fence. When she mentioned her fence washing project to Marc, he angrily turned to me and demanded, “Why aren’t you doing this?” (I wanted to say that I get drunk and watch Married with Children at that time of day, but the truth was that I would gladly do the job with a power washer, but Peggy insists on it being hand-washed).

When people ask how I am able to bear-up under what Peggy and I are going through, I can’t say that I’m strong and brave because I don’t think I am. 184-Americans per day are diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer, and 97% will be dead within a year even with treatment (Peggy has lasted 13-months). Just as people wonder how Peggy and I are holding-up, we wonder how other sufferers are managing. As for myself, I am being eaten alive by grief and terror, emotions that are never more intense than when I awaken throughout the night, too scared to get back to sleep without taking another half Ambien. Unfortunately, the maximum dose of Ambien is 15 mgs per night, and I need 25.

When I asked Peggy to get me a prescription for Ambien in her name, she called me an addict and objected that it would be unethical for her, unhealthy for me, and that it would introduce dishonesty into her relationship with her doctor. I pointed out that there is a difference between dependence and addiction; that my inability to sleep might be a greater health risk than more Ambien; that she sometimes takes my prescription drugs; and that people of integrity lie everyday—like when they check the box that says they have read and agreed to ten pages of legalese in order to download an app.

Given my emotional state, I am convinced that adequate sleep is the only thing that keeps me from collapsing. If I can’t sleep, I can’t function, and I must function. I’m Peggy’s primary support; I look for treatment options; I do chores that she can’t do; I actively participate in every medical appointment; I have her medical power of attorney; I think of medical questions to ask her doctors; I decide when a second opinion is necessary; and I’m constantly on the Internet researching what her doctors have told her. When I confided my problem to a friend in January, he sent me a bottle of Ambien, without which I don’t know how I would have survived, but I took the final dose of his Ambien last night. 

Some nights, I try to take less Ambien by combining it with three Unisom or with 5,100 mgs of Gabapentin, but I will still run out eventually, and Peggy’s ethics and mine are a million miles apart. Peggy is an obeyer of rules that are laid down by people in authority. I have little regard for authority, so my own obedience to rules is situational. In this situation, I say, “Love means doing everything possible to help your loved one in the way that he considers vital, even if doing so violates other peoples’ rules.” I tell Peggy this, but my words make no difference, and my hurt intensifies.

Three of our four cats have recently become much more affectionate toward Peggy. When she naps, Sage, Ollie, and Scully nap with her. When she walks about the house, Sage walks behind her, crying to be held. When she lies back in her rocking recliner to watch TV, Ollie sleeps on her chest. This would make a lovely image if Peggy didn’t have an IV port in her upper chest that makes her skin taut, swollen, and uncomfortable; and if Ollie didn’t catapult skyward every now and then, endangering that port and making the whole chair rock. Cats are like people in that they have their good points and their aggravating points, and to benefit from the former, one must make peace with the latter.