Good News!

"Good News Everyone! I'm still technically alive!" is my favorite Professor Farnsworth Quote.

Good News, Everyone!  

My PET scan is NEGATIVE.

My body and I are alone again.

It's the beginning of being whole.

There is still mass left behind.

But no activity can be detected.

I'm told that scar tissue can persist.

My PET scan is NEGATIVE.

School

I have done all that I can today and it's time to take a break.  The business of being positive means realizing that you've gotten behind on a ton of stuff you have to catch up on.  I'm done for the day and, maybe the week.  I was trying to clear the decks, get caught up and, maybe get a little ahead as this Thursday is Chemo Day.  Well, that didn't happen.  But, I've got enough done that I can reschedule the rest and feel I've gotten the important stuff out of the way.

Also, this Thursday I've got a new test result coming up.

In college, I loved the anticipation of an exam grade.  I was pretty used to passing grades, and usually passing high enough to keep me an honors student. (Don't ask me about my childhood, high school, or even early college academic years though.)

Thursday is the results of my latest test: a PET scan.

Because I did well on them, I liked tests.  In college and in the doctors' office.  Once I got over my childhood asthma, I didn't usually flunk doctor tests either.  I didn't usually do poorly on any physical test, except perhaps a fitness test.

I didn't realize quite how much I took all these passing grades for granted until I got handed a few F's back.  Cat scan, Pet scan, blood work.  It was a shock. Those questions weren't in the notes!  Another college memory surfaces of a blown exam and that now-what? feeling. How the heck did I blow this?

So, now after a few months of remedial school I got my retake of one of  the biggies.  I've always liked exams so I'm nervously looking A.

Day of the Triffids

I reached out to a friend who has two decades of head and neck oncology experience.  He said, "If I had to make a list, lymphoma would be number one.  These things dissolve if you throw seawater on them."   I could have hugged the man.  Forget statistics.  *That's* the way to put a perspective on something!

This week ends my second Cycle of chemotherapy.   Or, the end of my second month.  Next week, I have a lung function test performed again. (I think as a result of my concern over my initial test.  While not bad, my smoker's history showed.)  So, that is probably routine.  The other, less routine, is my next PET scan.  That one is important.  First progress report.  And of course, better is better.

I feel positive about it.  I'm also nervous about it.  I've shared to some how astonished I was that the lumps in my neck seemed to start melting within the first week that I started treatment.  When I mentioned this to Helen, she looked at me warily.  I really didn't quite believe it either.  Really?  Is this what it feels like? That quick?  But, after a few days, she could feel it, too.  Floods of emotions during that time.  Finally, I think relief and resolve at a proof that my mind, body and science were all working together.

I feel my neck from time to time, probing for a sign of its presence.  But, I can't feel anything there.

Seawater.

(My Day of the Triffids, is based on the 1962 movie.  Not, the darker novel on which it was based.)

(Photo: http://www.redbubble.com/people/capturingsmiles/art/6310176-sea-shells-washing-up-at-from-atlantic-ocean )

"It's Bath Time!"

I'm efficiently moved right into the system.   A youngish, short haired male technician brings me back with courtesy and mild professional curiosity.  "Your practice is where?"  "Oh, yes, I know the building."  Polite.  His day. My day. Routine.  My expectations are neutral, leaning towards it's nothing, but balanced against a concern that it's otherwise.

Explain, lie down.  Marker on the spot.  Inquiries. Where? I point.  He sticks the nickel sized adhesive-with-a-bead over It.  "So we know where to look."

Instructions.  Breathe.  The table moves.  A momentary reverse image of the moment.  The nameless placeholder image, made up of multiple television shows and movies scenes of the character sliding into the CT. That is me.  My conversational CT scan mental image always has a white fluorescent bulb shining down on the patients face.  There is none of that here.  It's all warm and amber tone.

Different technicians come out.  A line from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly comes to mind. "One bastard goes in, another comes out."  I chastise myself.  Tom Hanks may live by Godfather quotes in "You've Got Mail", but a lot of mine seem to come from Sergio Leone. I'm living movie and television moments. They get me up, telling me to await my results. One mentions wanting to remove the bead. Routine.  Friendly.  A little too friendly?

I hear Richard Pryor in my head.

It wasn't that bad.  I exaggerate. They were professional.

"It's bath time, Richard!"  That, we know something bad about you that you don't so we're going to act reassuringly normal, voice.  I have a moment of wry amusement followed by sudden drop in my stomach.  Are they?  Or is it just me?  Faithful, I make my decision.

I took the forgotten and neglected bead off, myself, in the parking lot and it was about an hour later that my doctor called me.

Blood tests today.   My WBC is normal, which is good.  But my Hemoglobin has fallen back into the anemic range.  I have mixed emotions about this.  I will ask my oncologist next visit about whether this is an expected type blood test for this stage of treatment, and why.

The Rapture of my Hair

Well.

It's Judgement Day in the hair department.  I have a mixture of emotions.  Over the years, I've been curious about shaving my head.  Watching my hair lose it's battle with my advancing forehead, I pondered the bald look.

A simple thing against cure, I'd have no problem giving my hair away permanently in the exchange.  And, I think, a pinky. Pinkies are under-rated.  They are pretty strong.  You can grip pretty hard if you want to between thumb and pinky.  Both pinkies.

So, it's not the hair.  It's the proof of reality coupled with the desire to see this as affirmation of chemo's effectiveness. When I think too much about it.

Regarding my purely physical body,  I think this is pretty funny.   It's really not the hair I'm curious to see what I look like without.  It's the eyebrows.  I think that's hysterical.  I *might* have one day shaved my head.  But I've never even considered shaving my eyebrows.