Random Things

It was Lord of the Ring Thanksgiving Weekend on Encore. (HD!)    Friday was treatment day.  So, the rest of the day is low key, tv, email, facebook, etc.  I loaf.   LotR on in the background.  In my office Saturday, not feeling well, attempting to work, LotR on in the background.  I think I have gone through the trilogy twice this weekend.  The *extended* versions, too.


There was nothing special about the conversation.  Back and forth on the spelling of the city.  "D-e-r or d-r?" "U or e?"  I was starting a new client.   The normality of it was startling and, kind of nice.  So many conversations have the open, or unspoken, topic of my health woven into it.  And, honestly, it's been a pretty hot topic on my own conversational plate, too.  Yes, no doubts, I have talked about it, too.  So, it was startlingly strange and nice to have a "normal" conversation.  I'm forgetting what they felt like.


I looked up my projected end of chemo dates.  Nothing's in stone, but maybe...early January?  Then, 17 days of radiation and maybe...done by Groundhog Day?  This is kind of exciting to think about.  Somewhere in there, they'll be taking my port out, too, I imagine.  Hmmmm.  There's a question for next visit.

On the topic of that client.  I put together my welcome packet for them tonight and, just as I'm about to seal it, I realized I hadn't put a business card in with it.  In fact, I hadn't been doing that for months, come to think of it.  Funny.  I don't even know if I have any of my Health Coach business cards around.  What a sad fact I had just found out.  Suddenly, it's very important to me to find my cards and send one out.

In my laptop bag, I grab up a small stack of discovered cards, wrapped with a rubber band.  I humored myself  as I drew my cards from the bag, with a vision of Theoden King.  Ah, my arm recovering it's old strength, as I wielded a card onto my letter!

Pausing for Breath

So.  The words of the day have been "pensive".   With a bit of depression.  Or, the other way around.

I've been able to talk about it a little bit with Helen and Sarah.  A very difficult thing.  They're understanding, though it effects them, too.

My doctor says it's normal, too.  So, there we have it, assurances all around.

For now, as long as I'm not in bed with the covers over my head, or my family doesn't want to commit me, I prefer not to medicate.  I'm functional, just a little demotivated temporarily.  It seems like the right thing to do is to let it play out.   I've got tremendous upside potential, I just need to wait until my emotions re-sync.

SPF 2000

So.  Let's call it bulky.  Accepted.  I feel better about it since I have the good PET.

On another front, we saw the radiation oncologist this week. I expected a recommendation for radiation from a radiation oncologist.  To be cynical, "if your tool is a hammer, everyone can start to look like nails."  However, he made a compelling case that comes from some pretty deep experience at Sloan in the Hodgkin's field.

It had been floated that with the good PET scan, six rounds of chemo with no radiation might be an option.

And he made clear that it was.

But there's a significantly better response with radiation.  So, with the bulk factor shading things, I don't see any reason to leave points on the table.  Radiation it shall be.

I'm supposed to get a little tan over the site.

Decisions

Now we are faced with decisions.   And also, questions.

First, for my doctor.  My file was referred for an opinion from an expert at the Cleveland Clinic.  While the information was good, more questions than answers came out of it.  The most important being that the expert said I have "bulky" disease.  This is a major blow to my psyche if true and I need to regroup and refocus.  Bulky disease is one of the "unfavorable" factors.  I don't like the sound of that at all and it was generally considered a good thing when my own doctor told me that he considered the mass in my chest significant, but not "bulky." 

So, just how bad is this bulky thing, anyway?  That's going to be a question for this week.

Also, while getting props for a good first follow-up PET, the words in conjunction with one of my treatment options were, "probability of relapse would be high."  I hated to hear that.  I wanted to hear that my first PET scan meant "no chance of relapse."

Now, I'm not saying that what I wanted to hear was realistic.  But it was ugly to hear of any instance where this thing would come back and I spent a few days very dissociated while I adjusted my reality check equipment.

On another front, Helen and Sarah finally got me to an introduction to Yoga at their yoga studio.  This is a pretty serious studio with a set of widely known teachers.  It was very enjoyable and geared to beginners. But it was a serious work out.   I felt pretty debilitated at the start of it, but very much better by the end.   It's not something I had seriously considered before.  But I may give it at try.

Bummer

Ethan Zohn's Hodgkin's has returned.
I think he had one of the bad versions of it.  He needed a stem cell transplant to be cured.

Before, that would have been an "Oh.  Too bad, he seemed like a nice guy.  I remember him from winning Survivor and when he had it the first time." 

Feels different. 

I'm truly sorry to hear of it.

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.