Comments (3) I invite you to commemorate my second anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer by making a conscious effort today to limit your exposure to cancer-causing agents and activities and increase those activities that fight it. So, maybe spring for organic produce at the market, take a long walk, choose a vegetarian option at dinner, and stop by the library to check out this book.
Have a happy, healthy day!
A year ago (almost to the hour) I listened to a man, whom I had met only a couple of hours earlier, quietly tell me over the phone that I should stop what I was doing (I think I was eating some leftover pizza) and check myself in to Regions Hospital. The month or so of mysterious bone pain, abnormal (though seemingly inconclusive) blood tests and plenty of head scratching finally “made sense.” What didn’t make sense was the fact that my body was malfunctioning. The body that I had known and (for the most part) cared for, was in need of some outside intervention if it was going to continue to function.
Virginia was teaching her yoga classes when I received that call. And, as I scrambled to look for the phone number to the building she was teaching in, I could feel myself coming undone. It’s a feeling I’ve never quite felt to that intensity before, and is one I’d rather not repeat. I ran up and down the stairs, not fully aware of my surroundings, still looking for that damn phone number. I remember telling myself out loud to calm down, my frantic search was just that – frantic. But, the search for the phone number, the packing of the bags, the waiting for Virginia to arrive all distracted me from the new reality that I could feel starting to take hold – I had cancer.
Once at the hospital, it only took a matter of minutes to make the unnerving transition from being in control of my own actions, my schedule, my life to that of cancer patient. I was now a case with a medical id number (which, if I think about long enough, might even be able to recall by memory). One minute I was walking around in civilian clothes, the next I was sitting on a bed in a gown, an I.V. already dripping, telemetry device hooked up to monitor my heart and the oncologist (no longer a guy that I met earlier in the day, but now someone who had my life in his hands) was discussing the procedure to insert a hickman line in order to start chemotherapy the next day. Waiting for treatment was not an option (let alone discussing alternative treatments), as my blood was quickly becoming less and less useful to my body.
Through this whirlwind of craziness, Virginia stood next to me taking in what my mind could not (which was basically everything). She was my rock, my partner through every single day that I was either in the hospital, or at the cancer care center undergoing additional treatments and receiving transfusions.
We looked back over the year and marveled at how much happened in just a short amount of time. I remember asking my oncologist (back when he was just the guy on the phone) how many days would I be in the hospital (thinking about my projects at work, about Spring quickly approaching), and being completely shocked when I heard “this will take months.” I had a really hard time coming to terms with the length required to treat and then to heal from the treatments. But, heal I did.
And, now it’s Spring again.
And, I have a chance to live again. (Not to mention, the chance to also get my hands dirty again.)
Those where the oncologist’s words. I just received a phone call from him with my PCR test results—a big fat “0″ in the 10,000 cells that were analyzed. In other words, the results were resoundingly and unmistakably negative. I wish I had a photo of some fireworks, or something. This will have to do:
My cancer card has been revoked, and I happily hand it back to the universe.
My oncologist phoned us up on Wednesday to ask that I come to the clinic for another bone marrow biopsy. My platelet count had dropped (unexpectedly) which prompted him to schedule the biopsy sooner rather than wait 2 months for a follow-up. So, we went in yesterday (bright and earlier) to add a fourth scar to my lower back. I am getting the hang of these things, but I am very thankful for the availability of drugs like Ativan and Dilaudid (although, Virginia might argue differently, knowing that the stronger the dose, the cornier my jokes become, and they doubled my dose yesterday).
The test that they will use on this biopsy is something called a polymerase chain reaction (PCR). Even though the last biopsy showed molecular remission, it only analyzed 500 cells. From what I understand, this test allows for greater accuracy, and will determine to what extent the remission has occurred. The Mayo Clinic labs have a pretty good explanation of the test. My oncologist, in theory, will be able to determine the course of treatment based on the results of this test, if their indeed is a change. Analyzing the marrow this way can allow for early detection of relapse, which will mean quicker treatment. The results, unfortunately, take a week. So, we won’t know anything until Wednesday.
In the meantime, life goes on. I’m feeling better and better, the hole in my chest is healing nicely, and since our bikes are fixed up, we’ve already been out several times. And, what better way to illustrate a return to “normal” than by showing some scratchcrafty goodness…
…like, these Keefely Mittens that Virginia made (pattern by JoLene Treace):
…or, this apricot pie I baked for a friend’s birthday:
Normal is good. We like normal.
It is quite astounding how quickly one loses muscle and overall fitness in just a short while. My forced inactivity over the past 8 months has left me pretty flabby, short of breath and needing some serious muscle rebuilding. Bike riding seems to be a good way to start, and we have very good trails all around us (including the Gateway Trail which we can hop on three blocks from our house).
I am fortunate to have a good friend who (besides being a good friend) is knowledgeable in servicing bikes. So, after plying him with beer and pizza, had him show me some of the basics of fixing up our bikes (they had been sitting unused for over a year or more).
Virginia and I have two pretty basic mountain bikes, but we also had this dusty old bike sitting in the back of the garage. We took the opportunity to clean up this one as well. (It’s pretty safe to say that Virginia will most likely be abandoning the mountain bike for this beautiful vintage Dunelt 3-speed.) I’m a little jealous, but it was satisfying to be able to return this one to working order.
I rode for the first time yesterday, and it felt great. I was a bit jelly-legged and winded, but no pain, no gain, right? In some ways, the restoration of this old bike illustrates the transformation from an ill body to one that is back in working order. A little elbow grease, some fine tuning, a new set of tires, and wah-lah. I can’t wait until this transformation is complete.
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