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.

So. Chemo.

CHEMO. CHEMOTHERAPY. CANCER. DEATH. life.

Maybe it's just me.  But that's the pre-cancer view I had on chemotherapy.  Yes, life was in there.  But, ...man.

It's an ugly word to hold so much hope.   Chemo just isn't a word that brings images of flowers and kittens to mind.  Or playing with your children, or friends. Or riding a bike, or running.  Chemo does not create envy. It's a word wrapped in fatigue and vomit.

Mixed in, there is a degree of fear that it won't work.  That the person you know on chemo is going to get very sick and they might die anyway.  I thought that way.  I see that some of the people I talk to now, think that way about me.  I get this little gut, what?  But, my cancer is 80% curable!  Still, I get it.

CHEMOTHERAPY. LIFE. CHEMO.                                    cancer.                         death.

I've never quite felt like having hit the lottery before.  Once cancer is a given, forget wishing it was otherwise: what matters is what you have and how far has it gone?   I have Hodgkin's Lymphoma IIA.  And that means that chemotherapy is my best friend.

Still, it's an unfortunate moniker.   But, now Chemo brings to mind images of running with Sarah, biking with Helen or, doing SCA medieval combat with my friends.  Chemo will kill my cancer and, maybe, it will make me sick.   But compared to what I'm going to get from it, nothing has been that bad. It's been...factual.  I kind of look forward to my treatments and the aftermath.

I've also been associating the word Chemo with how I feel about Milkshakes.  Try it, it's pretty good!

Make it So.

While I lay in the operating room, awaiting the implantation of my port, I realize I am looking forward to the moment when I will make the jump through hyperspace into my future consciousness.  This is new.  It's always been a Blue Jaunt before.

Just before the jump, mask in place, oxygen flowing, hair net applied, I gaze up at the ceiling and think, “Heh, this is a unique moment I never pictured being in.”

I exit hyperspace into the physical coordinates of the Recovery Room.  The nurse, seeing my arrival, welcomes me.  My pre-chosen, post-travel meal arrives.  When they take the port out, I’m getting two of the chocolate coconut brownies.

From There to Treatment - Inside

Thumb up, thumb down.  Dying is no longer a theoretical, but a real and present possibility. Each test is another trial where, wrapped tightly, I present myself for examination. I live with a new kind of fear of my body. As if I am waiting to be told whether the vehicle that carries me about is rotted out.

"Blow up the world?", exclaimed The Tick, "But, that's where I keep my stuff!"

For most of my life, my body and I have had an ambivalent relationship. Only in the last few years have we begun to reconcile. Feelings of betrayal mix with fear. My body was thinking of dying out from under me! Can't we talk about it? I love you!

I keep feeling my neck and the enlarging growth there. I'm sorry, Uncle Charlie! Anguish, hope, fear, resolve, sadness all underlaid with surreal horror. It got me. Jeez. Then, back to the business at hand, the next day, the next test.

The results are in, each weighed and measured. I have cancer. But, I am lucky. Science is on my side. I am fighting with the odds, not against them.

From There to Treatment - Outside

August was spent being tested and seeing an oncologist.  The diagnosis was in by mid-late August: Hodgkin's Lymphoma.  That helped a lot: there's a  lot of hope in that diagnosis.  More testing.  Final Diagnosis, classic Hodgkin's Lymphoma, Stage IIA.

Starting with a CBC blood test and a CT (with contrast) with positive results, the path to this diagnosis was: A needle biopsy to positively determine malignancy and gross differentiation. An excision biopsy under general anesthesia to remove a lymph node for fine differentiation.  A PET/CT scan to determine the extent of cancer activity throughout the body.  A bone marrow biopsy. 

So many times I've commiserated with friends about the time from their diagnosis to treatment. It's a time of hurry up and wait. This is just how it goes. It's okay, it doesn't effect your outcome.  Everyone goes through it.  It's natural to want to get started treating tomorrow.  You'll get started soon enough.

Campfire Stories

"How did you find out?"

I had a few lymph nodes in my lower left neck that became enlarged. They didn't change or grow or anything.  At the time, I was seeing doctors for a possible skin infection. Enlarged lymph nodes would have made sense. When everything cleared up and they didn't go down, my doctor checked them. Total time: about four months. He ordered some blood work and a CAT scan.

Then things got weird.