Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Re-Branding, Halftime Report, Tears of Sheer Joy

Bear with me, please, as this update has quite some ground to cover. Or, set it aside and save it for later when you're in the mood for a pick-me-up. I do realize that some of you have day jobs.

Spoiler alert: It's happy ground our roving reporter is covering today. It's a playground. (Literally, as I write this little ditty to the joyful backdrop of day-care kids laughing and playing tag and hide-and-seek.) Today is such a good day, I just have to relive it and rejoice. Play by play. So if you're really in the mood, welcome to my celebration.

Where do I even begin? Hmm. How about this very moment? The here and now.

You know how nice it is just to sit on the ground, on a little incline, lay out and bask in the sun, then ease over into the cool shade? It's, well, grounding. Relaxing. The cozy feel of grass beneath you. The feeling that all is well, all is grounded, all is good, and everything is in it's right place. Now, even better, slip off the shoes and socks and feel the grass on your bare feet. With me? Got the visual? Maybe an inkling of sensual? Spiritual? Good. "Ommmm" with me. That's how I'm feeling. A day to rejoice. And because I can never tell a long story short, here's the extended version.

I'm having myself a welcome break today from chemo, after, oh, about 7 straight days, I guess. I lost count. At least the docs are keepin' score. Main thing, my thing: Free reign today, riding a wave of goodness.

Wait, what? Somewhere in that headline, does it read "Halftime Report"?! If I'm seeing straighter than I'm thinking, I'm thinking it actually does. What's up with that? Well, here's the deal -- and I realize these journal entries are getting hard to follow with my backs and forths on next steps. If any consolation, folks, believe you me, it confuses me, too...

But here's what got today off to such a great start. I got a visit this morning from my good man Prof. Serve -- the big chief, the guy who runs this show. I asked him to please explain to me again for the hearing / wannabe-hearing impaired. I needed to cleanly sweep that aforementioned "fine line" from my last posting.

So, doc, I ask, what exactly are the next steps, day by day? And what again was the part about the "staging," where we check status quo, CT, biopsy, all that jazz? Do I go home for a while for that bit? (Pen in hand, I'm ready to take good notes. Gonna nail this verbatim. For all of our sakes.)

[Reassuring, patient smile behind his mask.] "Sure thing," says Prof. Serve. "Today, you've got a break. Congratulations. Tomorrow, we've got a dose of your own stem cells for you. That will only run a few hours, and I'm confident that they're going to give your immune system a good, strong boost -- for good measure, on the heels of the high-dose you just had. They're going to further break up the bad guys for us. Give us more surface of attack. Just like last time, right? Your cells worked well for you, didn't they? Gave us a good, strong boost. Well, they will again, trust me." [Another reassuring smile.]

And he continued, "Then, we'll give those good, strong white cells around 10 to 14 days after sinking in to your bone marrow, from where they'll start reproducing and working their way out to fight the good fight. Then, you can go home for a week, maybe two, and recover. And at some point during that little breather, we'll call you in for out-patient CT, biopsy, etc. (The 'staging.') No need for you to stay here during that time. And I'm sure you'll appreciate the break, right? You just have to promise not to go running away from us." [Nod, nod, wink, wink, behind the mask. He's been following my treatment path step by step over the years, and knows full well of my history of apprehension about and aversion to the donor transplant.]

Then he proceeded to sweep in some clarity. "If the staging shows that the time is ripe, with lots of good niches for attack, we'll go right into to the donor transplant." (And if not, we'll repeat the high-dose, and then re-staging. Either way, time-wise, I'm back to the clinic in late October.) "Depending on how the donor transplant goes, as you know, you'll be about 2 to 3 months in clinic quarantine, then you go home for 'home quarantine,' and come in as out-patient 2-3 times a week for check-ups. That's all standard for the critical 100-day post transplant period. And with your strength, your youth, I expect the best." [Reassuring smile]

Phew. Now I got it. Thanks, doc, for the clarity. I know what I'm in for. I'm looking forward to a brief little break to go home, and then get right back to finish what we've started. Couple of months is not much time after all. Tomorrow actually marks two weeks now in the clinic, and they've gone by pretty fast. I know that, in the grand scheme of things, a few months is really only a short time to invest toward a lot more years of a wonderful life. And I fully intend to take every single one of them.

Tears of Sheer Joy

Oh, wait, doc, one more thing, I said. I'm a wishful thinker, so tell me please if I'm being delusional, or if my own self-diagnosis here is on target: Over the past months, I had been feeling ever more weak, running high temperatures, sweating a lot at night, which I think I can assume from past experience were simply the signs that my body was trying hard to battle away on its own, correct? [Correct, he confirms.]

Ok, doc, good. So here's my question. Since we started this high-dose, my temperature has been back to normal, and night by night, I'm not sweating as much. Lump in throat and likely visibly trembling, I asked: Can I maybe interpret these as indications that the chemo is truly working?

And it was all I could do to hold back the tears when he replied, "I'd say that's a very safe assumption of what's now happening. Good, isn't it? Like I said, I'm confident. We're gonna get you through this just fine." [Reassuring smile.]

And so head in the clouds and heart full of hope, I set out for my free day. Been loving every minute of it. Still am. Feel free to join me. Give thanks and praises, friends. All is good. Right on track.

Oh, Yeah, the Re-Branding

The other open item from headline -- and the lines are open for suggestions -- I've decided to re-brand the "boat." For my visualization in meditation. Reason being, a boat is a big object. I need to call it like it is. These bad guys are a loosely-banded, confused, weak, helpless heap of, at most, tiny little intertubes, with all sides fully vulnerable to attack. And I visualize them getting blown to bits and washed away by glorious, agile white PT boats and the overwhelming might of destroyers, battleships and aircraft-carriers(i.e. the chemo and white blood cells.)

So please join me in retiring the acronym "boat," and also in the search for a silly, pathetic new a.k.a. that fittingly mocks these doomed softies. I kind of like acronyms, but am open to any and all suggestions. And I'm always game for a game.

Onwards and upwards.