Option 1: Do nothing. There’s an 80% chance that the surgery Andy had to remove the tumors was enough; the cancer will never come back. Of course he would have to get monitored on a regular basis to make sure, but even if the cancer returned, it’s a sort that’s slow growing enough that there’s no real risk. As long as he stuck to his surveillance schedule they would catch it with plenty of time and squash it away before it could do any harm. And anyone who knows my husband knows he would stick to his surveillance schedule. But would he worry and fret between check-ups? Anyone who knows my husband knows that, yes, he would do that too. Another problem: if the cancer came back, squashing it would require much more serious and debilitating drugs than what would be used now; see options 2 and 3.

Option 2: Radiation. Basically, he would go in every day for a few weeks and have cancer fighting rays zapped down on his abdomen. The point would be to kill any tiny cancer cells that had escaped but that were too small to be be detected by his CT scan (because no spreading was detected on his CT scan). This would reduce the odds of recurrence from 20% to less than 5%. Problem is, it would also probably make him horribly sick and more importantly, up his risk factor for colon cancer ever so slightly; his mom died from colon cancer.

Option 3: Chemo. A type of chemotherapy called carboplatin is a fairly new option for Andy’s type of cancer. It’s been used on other cancers for a long time so they know it doesn’t lead to any major long-term problems. Of course, it’s still chemotherapy so it’s not totally harmless and shouldn’t be administered unnecessarily, but it’s much more mild than the sort of chemos that would be used if a recurrence happened. Based on about 10 years of research, they’re thinking it has similar success rates as radiation, reducing the odds of recurrence to less than 5%. However, because it hasn’t been around too long it’s impossible to know this for sure. But it’s a lot easier on the body than radiation. You get one injection and then wait it out for three weeks or so. The vast majority of people experience only minor discomfort and keep working full-time.

So, what did Andy decide?

Drumroll please…

Andy wanted more peace of mind than surveillance alone could provide. To stay sane he needs to know a) he did everything he could to stave off recurrence, and b) recurrence is pretty darn unlikely. So that left him with radiation or chemo. Radiation is a perfectly good option for many, but he didn’t see the point in upping his risk, even ever so slightly, for another type of cancer to which he’s already genetically predisposed — especially when there’s another perfectly good option on the table. So that left chemo. Even after the chemo he’ll still need to get his blood tested for cancer markers quarterly and have annual CT scans in the event that he’s in the unlucky 5%, but that’s manageable enough that we will hopefully be able to return to Benin to finish out our tour. The State Department’s medical office is telling us that should be fine, but we’ll see what happens when it’s time for an official decision.

So, that’s that.

Andy is scheduled to start chemo on February 13. I guess I have to let him off the hook for Valentine’s Day this year, huh?

But there’s my dilemma. Life isn’t just about the good stuff; bad creeps in occasionally too. And how am I to handle that bad stuff online? I faced that question last March when my dad passed away, and I’m facing it again now. Not knowing how much I want to reveal, I’ve opted so far to say nothing at all. But that hasn’t really been working. There’s a difference between not disclosing every little thing and intentionally holding back the most important thing. Holding back the most important thing feels not only dishonest but also uncomfortable. And so I guess (at least for me) that’s when a lowlight becomes scatter-worthy.

Here’s what has been going on.*

January 1: Andy found a lump that he promptly had examined by the Embassy doctor, who didn’t think it was anything serious.

January 3: The doctor arranged for blood tests and a sonogram to be done in Cotonou just in case.

January 4: The results were analyzed both by the Embassy doctor and the Regional Medical Officer; neither thought there was cause for worry. Still, Andy and I remained concerned. My dad’s fairly recent death of throat cancer was fresh in my mind, and Andy lost his mom when he was little to colon cancer too. To us, a lump meant cancer, and the possibility of cancer — however tiny — was too serious to ignore. Fortunately the Regional Medical Officer approved a medevac for Andy for further evaluation. Flynn and I were approved to fly back the the U.S. too.

January 10: We arrived in D.C.

January 11: Within the first five minutes of Andy’s appointment, a urologist at George Washington University diagnosed him with testicular cancer.

January 12: Andy underwent surgery to get rid of two cancerous tumors. They were sent for biopsy to determine specifically what kind of cells they contained.

January 18: Andy had a CT scan to see whether and where the cancer had spread.

January 20: Nine days after the diagnosis of cancer — awful days of waiting, worrying, and fearing the worst — the results from blood tests, biopsy, and CT scan were finally all in. And the news was good. In fact, given the circumstances, it was the best possible news we could have received: his cancer was both the less dangerous kind and was caught before it had spread anywhere else. The survival rate for this sort of thing (with proper follow-up care) is essentially 100%.

We are all so happy, especially this little one who actually just moved on from his incessant muttering of “Mama” to a brand new word: “Dada.” Coincidence? I think not.

Though we have the diagnosis and prognosis, there are still many unknowns.

What follow-on treatment will we decide is best? Andy might undergo a low dose of radiation or chemo to slash the odds of recurrence from 15% down to virtually none, or he might just have CT scans and blood tests regularly for the next few years to monitor the situation, and only go the radiation or chemo route if that becomes necessary. (Because his cancer was the less dangerous, slow growing kind, this is perfectly safe.) When we decide on the best follow-on treatment, how long will it take? And what will I do work-wise during that time? After treatment, will Andy be medically cleared to return to Cotonou, or will I have to find an assignment somewhere else? What will become of Andy’s spot on the Foreign Service Register? Appointments Monday and Tuesday with an oncologist and then a radiation oncologist will allow us to start tackling these unknowns.

For now, we’re focusing on the one thing we do know: when all is said and done, it looks like Andy will be okay.

* Posted with Andy’s okay, of course. He says hello and thanks for reading, but he’s still enjoying the “I have cancer” excuse to justify lazing around all day and basking in decent bandwidth and the wonders of Hulu; as a result he has no free time to actually compose a blog entry himself.

Then I began to hear that this was not always the case. Too often, students fresh out of six months of FSI language training would go to post and find that nearly everyone in the embassy spoke English. If they didn’t have to work with many people outside the embassy, their skills would actually diminish. It made sense, of course, but I was determined that this would not happen to me.

In the past week, however, I’ve discovered a second problem with maintaining my French skills – the more I speak, the worse I get. Let me explain. When I was in class at FSI, the most important thing was to speak correctly. The second most important thing was to communicate my point. That meant that if we were discussing an environmental conference or an African election, it was better not to make grammatical mistakes than to communicate a nuanced point. Now it was still important to convey the general idea I wanted to get across, but beyond that, it was all about the grammar.

Now that we’re here, the opposite is true. When I’m speaking with Flynn’s nanny about how much to feed him or how he likes his bath or what to do when he’s spitting up, I quickly stop caring at all about grammar and only care that I communicate my point. Conjugation? No time for that. Vocabulary? Hand gestures work just as well. Past tense? She’ll get the idea.

So I’m hoping that my sloppy French speaking doesn’t stick with me and I don’t return to FSI in two years only to find I’ve gotten worse. I understand there are some classes at the embassy that can help me improve and I want to take advantage of them once I start working.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue to believe that the French word for “ironing” is actually just a hand gesture, that pronouns don’t really exist and that everything that has ever happened is continuing to happen at the present time.

Let me tell you, judging by the complicated lists and Excel sheets that Andy’s using to guide our transfer process, he’s going to make quite the management officer one of these days. But what have I, his much less detail-oriented wife, been up to all this time (besides of course attending to the taskings he assigns me each day)? Why, shopping of course. Yes, I’m a stereotype. Please forgive me; it’s been a long time coming.

It’s possible there are cute maternity clothes somewhere out there in the world, but I never managed to find any. And so out for walks around the neighborhood in the last few months of my pregnancy, I would pass gaggles of Georgetown girls in their springtime dresses and would always grumble to Andy, “Ugh, I’m so jealous. I cannot WAIT until I can wear normal stuff again.” And then, “Oh, that’s a cute dress! Help me remember to look for that one.”

Of course, being 29 and having a modicum of modesty, none of those girls’ dresses were really viable options for me. When exactly it became acceptable to produce a dress that falls a full foot above the knee is an important topic that needs to be discussed, but we’ll save that for another day.

Now that Flynn is here and I’m back to looking like a regular person, I can finally buy some new clothes. And so I have been. A lot. After all, an H&M just a footbridge and an alley away is not a luxury one takes for granted.

Nevermind that last year’s clothes are perfectly fine. Nevermind that I have no idea what I’ll really want or need to wear when we get to Benin. Truth be told, it’s not just about the clothes. When you’re living with a miniature human, especially one who doesn’t like to sleep at night but does like to throw up on you several times a day, sometimes you need an excuse to get out of the house for a bit. (Same goes for living with a husband who’s worrying himself sick that he’ll miss some crucial detail and as a result his dog will be torn out of his arms at Charles de Gaulle and sacrificed to the gods of improper pet import documentation. Or something.)

In other news, it seems that the details of my job in Cotonou as a Consular Associate have nearly been finalized. Since last July when becoming a Consular Associate first became a possibility, I’ve had to say that I’ll “probably” work in the Consular section. And that I’m “pretty sure” the job will be available. And “if everything goes as planned” I’ll be a Consular Associate. It will be nice when it is finally official and I will be able to stop using all those inconvenient caveats.

Because I’m going to be meeting a lot of new people, the first thing I needed to learn was how to shake hands. I couldn’t do it alone, so I employed the help of my boy owner. It took a lot of biscuits and a lot of patience, but I think I’ve finally figured it out.

Just between you and me, I actually figured out this whole shaking thing pretty quickly. I was dragging it out because I kept getting more food. Don’t tell my owners.

Too bad this victory was immediately followed by  several miserable days of moving. But the good news is that we’re done, and everyone is settling in nicely — except maybe Abbey, who spends even more of her day than usual sleeping. (She’s never lived in a house with stairs before, and climbing them to tag along any time either one of us goes upstairs is proving quite tiring.)

We, however, love the new place. The hardwood floors. The exposed brick. The location. The two levels. The fact that you can open the front door and let in fresh air. In Andy’s words: “I think this is the only apartment I’ve ever had that I’ve actually liked.” Most importantly, it’ll be a good place to bring home the baby in 10 weeks. Or eight. Eight sounds pretty good right now, as I drag myself out of bed from the evening nap that’s become a part of my daily routine.

That’s right, I’m talking about the 159th A-100 class, the one I was invited to join back in November, and the one that started training today. When I turned down the offer, I was sure I was making the right decision. Today I’m still just as sure, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there was a tiny part of me that wishes I was starting A-100 now, instead of (maybe, hopefully) in two years.

I also realized that Valentine’s Day has another significance in our Foreign Service lives. It’s the day that Alex took the written test in Philadelphia two years ago. To say that it has been an interesting journey would be an understatement and we haven’t even left the country yet. We’re very excited to see where we will be in two more years. (Maybe, hopefully, as a tandem couple.)

And now I am off to figure out directions to the place we’re going to celebrate Valentine’s Day tonight. I wanted to take Alex here but unfortunately there aren’t any options in our area. Also I was afraid she’d divorce me.

I took my French exam today. The results: 2+/3.

What this means is that I scored a 2+ on the oral section and a 3 on the reading section. Since my goal was a 3/3, it seems like I passed one section, but barely missed out on the other.

But alas, it’s not so simple.

You see, in order to get bonus points on the management register, I needed a 3 in the oral section. The reading section doesn’t matter for bonus points. I could have eaten the articles instead of reading them, but as long as I scored a 3 on the oral section, I’d have gotten my bonus.

So what now? Well, since I’m an EFM and not an FSO, my French days at FSI are over until I’m actually hired. I can still take the phone test to get points on the management register in the traditional route, but right now I’m a little too burnt out on French to really think about that. What I will need to do, however, is find a way to maintain my French skills (or lack thereof – signed, The French Department) until we go to Benin. That seems like a good activity for after the holidays.

Alex wanted me to add two more things. Despite not quite achieving my goal, I’m proud of how far I’ve come in just six months. And French isn’t really just for jerks.

Alex: It seems like nobody passes the French test. I’m nervous.
Andy: I bet you’ll do fine, stop worrying.
Alex: Be quiet. You don’t have to pass the test. You don’t even have to take it.
Andy: Um, here’s our dog, play with her for a while.

Well, fast forward to five months later and the roles have reversed. While Alex still has to take the test, the pressure is mostly off of her. After all, we’re going to be here until August no matter what. What’s another month or two in French class but a chance to improve her speaking and avoid the need to buy maternity suits for a bridge assignment at Main State? Besides, almost nobody passes the test the first time around.

Me on the other hand, now I’m starting to feel the pressure. Let me explain. As an EFM, I have no real obligation to take the two-hour end of training exam. I don’t have to achieve a certain score in order to go with Alex to Benin. If I wanted to, I could just decide that today was my last day of French class and spend the rest of December sleeping until noon, hanging out with my dog and eating cereal directly from the box.

But I do have motivations to continue. First, the better I speak French, the better I will be able to conduct important business in Benin, such as getting our car tuned up or arranging for golf lessons on the country’s only golf course. And unlike Alex, my French training will likely end with my test on December 20 even if I fail. Typically EFMs aren’t able to get additional training.

Second, if I manage to pass the oral section of my end of training exam, that will give me bonus points on the management register. That means I won’t have to take the phone test that most FSO candidates take to get an extra boost. But if I don’t pass the oral section, I’ll still be able to take the phone test right away, and I’ll have a pretty good idea of my weaknesses.

So lately, the roles have been reversed. I find myself feeling a little stressed while Alex is more relaxed. I’m the one up early doing homework, grumbling when I’m interrupted, and she’s getting an extra hour of sleep.

Bon chance à moi.