Tag: Cancer

When cells divide

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My doctor says she found cancerous white blood cells floating around my body again. They appeared in a blood smear done back in August. She doesn’t plan to treat it until certain symptoms appear – which based on the slow, chronic nature of my disease, could still be a while. I was symptom free in August (besides the hairy traitors showing themselves in my blood), and I’m symptom free now, so we’re waiting. We’re looking. One day we’ll be seeing.

I got this news after my little nap in her lobby yesterday. Cheryl was pissed we didn’t find out sooner. “Why didn’t they at least call?!?” But it wouldn’t have changed anything, other than give me another six months to think about it. Personally, I’m glad they didn’t call. I’m thinking about it enough now to make up for lost time.

Please don’t let me mislead you. My life is not on the line. The form of Leukemia I have may be one of the rarest, but it’s also relatively easy to treat, and a high percentage of patients see remission after only one course of chemotherapy. It’s also like the turtle of all cancers. Early detection is not important. Plus, I knew it would probably come back. I just thought it would be fifteen years, not less than five.

I’m not afraid. I’ve done this before and I know, somewhere in this thick scull of mine, that everything will be ok. And yet, I feel a lot like I did almost three years ago. I’m depressed. I’m distracted. I thought I could make it through a day at work today, but I’m fragile. I didn’t make it to ten o’clock. I’m dreading the chemotherapy. If my last reaction is any indication, it will involve a couple weeks in the hospital with pain, puke, fever, chills, and a few things best left unsaid on a family web site.

Oh the hell with it. At times it kind of felt like a roto-rooter of my lower GI, someone fiddling with the insides of my bones, and a bad concussion.

I wait. Cheryl will worry over every sign of illness, discomfort, or fatigue. People will offer their prayers and I’ll feel unworthy. People will say they’re sorry and my mind will snap back “why, you didn’t do anything.” Luckily, the filter between my mind and my mouth will be in working order.

Most of the time.

Resigned, I’ll just brood a lot, which won’t be much different than normal.

I’m great at parties too.

Me mom

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My parent’s 40th wedding anniversary is coming up next week, so I assumed I’d be making the drive up to Chattahoochee this weekend with my dad.

But I’m not.

My mother is being released to a local assisted living facility on Thursday. I’ll see her right here in good ‘ole Pinellas County on Friday.

The place looks really nice – about as different from a state institution as you can imagine. It’s certified to care for people like my mom and it’s close.

It’s been about two years. My mother is finally coming home. Several things in my life are gauged by my little dance with cancer, not that I think about it all the time. What strikes me is: my mother’s hospital stays started before I was diagnosed.

It was a different life… not half as striking, but sort of like life before and after having kids.

She still won’t be home exactly, but she’ll be here – she’ll be around. Part of that old life, before cancer created a new reference point, is falling back into the right spot.

Brain a buzz

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A friend of mine likes to talk about “the karma truck” and it’s chances of running you over. I’ve pointed out that talking about it probably doesn’t help his chances, but some people just can’t be helped.

I wrote the last entry two weeks ago but I wasn’t going to post it. I’d shared it with Cheryl though, and she thought it was amusing. (It’s fine to love and lose, but I’d just as soon not precipitate the loss). Still, I didn’t want to offend anyone… mothers making up a large percentage of the reading public, and a fair portion of my audience (such as it is). The equation changed somewhat on Monday when I got clipped by my friend’s karma truck. I figured I might as well post it – if for no other reason than to give this one a little context. Besides, I’ve really enjoyed writing these last two paragraphs. They’re begging me for a raison d’être.

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I had my quarterly visit with my oncologist on Monday. Her people drew some blood and ran the numbers, per usual. One number is normally out of range (my lymphocytes), but a couple more numbers were slightly out of range too. Still, my Doctor’s first reaction was, “this looks good.” It’s happened before and it was no big deal then. However, this time she followed it up with the most thorough physical exam since my initial diagnosis; asking me about localized pain, unexplained fevers, and checking all the places blood cells can collect when things go wrong (thumping my spleen and massaging my lymph nodes). I haven’t had any pain or fevers, but my answers seemed to surprise her. It could have been my imagination or deficient social skills, but it seemed like she was expecting a yes or two.

Well, by now I’ve revealed enough of myself and this visit for you to recognize the makings of a panic attack – the paralyzing variety. I’d planned to go back to work afterwards, but it was enough to send me home, take a pill, and chill.

We now return you to my appointment, already in progress.

I can put up a pretty good front as long as speech isn’t required. Not talking is a pretty revealing tell though. She tried to reassure me. “You’re fine,” she said. “I want to do a blood smear just in case, but everything looks great. Oh, and if you do have any unexplained pain or fever, give us a call right away.”

Um… ok. We need to work on our focus when we’re reassuring.

The last time they wanted to check my blood under a microscope it was to check for cell abnormalities – which they found. Oh, and wasn’t there an old revision of an AMA medical dictionary (before they went soft on bedside manner) that defined “right away” as “you better do it right fucking now before you drop dead?”

If I was smart, or I could string two meaningful words together under pressure, I would have asked questions, like: “Why do you want to take a closer look at my blood? Does something concern you? Why are you concerned about these particular symptoms?”

This is the part of the post where I tell you the worst thing that came from my little dance with leukemia two years ago was fear. It’s a scary word and I’m easily frightened.

Even if it did return to active duty, the kind I have is easily treated (relative to other cancers)… and none of this means it’s back. One of my numbers: a type of white blood cell that’s about half of what it should be, could be explained by a simple infection. Plus, the prior fight with my little hairy mutants left me with fewer of those cells to start with. I’m also two years into my remission. The chance of a reoccurrence at this point is quite low. There’s a window between ten and fifteen years where younger people tend to have another go at it, but I’m not there.

Hairy cell leukemia is quite rare already, but it’s even rarer in young people. It’s mostly a senior’s disease. (I never thought I’d be ahead of my time.) Over all relapse rates may be artificially low because patients tend to die of other, natural causes (not precipitated by the leukemia) before it has a chance to come back. However, I’ve been told that since I was so young, there’s a good chance it will eventually come back (unless I pick a fight with a truck in the mean time) but probably not now.

I’ve also been told that even if it does come back, there’s no change in treatment, and no change of prognosis – which is really good. The treatment is easy as chemotherapy goes (though I was an exception, requiring hospitalization – sensing a trend?), and the prognosis is excellent.

I’ve tried to show everything in it’s naturally occurring, good light in this post. I just wish I could make myself believe it. If it makes you feel any better, writing it down helped.

Paging Buzz

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Paging Buzz Aldrin. Buzz, you’re needed on the ladder.

My wife made a startling revelation to me the other day, one that may have betrayed her kind. I don’t have a quote. It came out over the course of a conversation rather than an easily digestible sentence or two. However, the gist was: she’d pick the pain of childbirth over my stint in the hospital doing chemo.

You may find this odd, down right petty, both, or much more – but at that moment I felt euphoric. Do you know what this means? I feel like I’ve gone where no husband has gone before. There’s Neil Armstrong, then me.

That’s one small heave for man, one giant puke for mankind.

I’ve pulled the trump card from the deck of marital one-upsmanship. I’ll never hear the phrase, “At least you never gave birth.”

Never.

Something good came from cancer after all.

I am the man!

Failing to prove a point

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I’d planned this post as a bit of self-parody, after my “two thousand and something” entry last night. I was going to do one of those “a year ago on this date” posts, then admit I hadn’t posted anything a year ago.

Trouble is, I did. Damn. So I checked two years ago. Double damn. Not only did I find a post, I found a pretty significant one… the kind of thing you’d actually use in a “two years ago on this date” kind of post.

I can’t even pick on myself and get it right.