So, today I did what it looks like I will be doing off and on forever. Back to the hospital so they can pull more blood and see how this new drug is affecting my little Invader.
They do this in the room where chemotherapy is administered via IV. Old men and women looking tired, blank... and sometimes forlorn. Young, French-manicured girls texting on their smart phones... Varying faces of the same insidious crap.
Believe me, I am very aware that I have it easy in comparison, but it is odd to sit in this room, in these chairs on the same level and see who is affected and how.
Clearly, cancer is extremely ecumenical in its choices...
It is an unpleasantly decorated room. Robin's Egg blue walls, baby-shit brown easy chairs... no magazines and pictures of THE LORD are everywhere. It's a 7th Day Adventist hospital... whatever that means. I've always gotten 7th Day Adventist and Latter Day Saints mixed up... so maybe the nurses wear magic underwear and are good at math while being vegetarians. All very confusing.
I stare out the window at the vivid blue sky and green mountains that surround the building--contrasting with the very deep and apparently damaged red coming out of my vein, through a small tube into a vial to be dissected by triage nurses and interpreted by my Oncologist.
This is the new normal. That and fighting dizziness and humourous onset of fatigue that has me bumping into things, reeling and forgetting what I'm saying in the middle of a sentence.
What is also strangely new is a deeper and surprising appreciation of ... well...everything. Conversations, food, friends... Focusing on things and finding that it is indeed oddly easier to be more present for the present. (Taking the moment present as a present for the moment. Ah, Stephen...)
Had dinner last night at Sierra Nevada and the table ordered things like Pig Cheeks...
Someone
ordered bone marrow and my inner inappropriate thirteen year old almost
asked the waitress to check and see if it was a match. I may need it.
Ah, black humour...
In the middle of all this, Spring has descended where I live; the rarefied splash zone where The Smokies meet The Blue Ridge and Appalachia.
So, what to do...
Well, garden my ever-narrowing arse off. How about that?
Today, I put up a Bluebird house made of cedar and a "squirrel-proof" Bluebird feeder filled with mealworms. Oregano, Parsley, Mexican Tarragon, German Thyme, Lavender, Chives, Dill, Marjoram, and--just because I want to watch them (hopefully) grow and bloom, Dahlia, Lilly of The Valley, Morning Glory and a very aptly named Sarah Bernhardt Peony... Seemed appropriate... The Drama Queen of Flowers. And a magenta hanging petunia.
I have this weird feeling, I may start growing vegetables and generating my own electricity out of what Dawg leaves in the ivy. Beard to my belt and spouting Foxfire quotes while looking like a ZZ Top refugee... I'd fit right in.
They say every seven years, time waves a hand over your face and your soul... Aging you and adding vintage. I have to say, looking back, that is absolutely true.
So... bring me your tired, your poor... your hungry wine snobs yearning to breathe free.
Here I stay.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Chemo Fun
Yesterday, the Chemo (Sprycell... still can't get over the name... ah, Marketing) arrived and I took the first pill. Sat and stared at the box for a while before opening it, as I was grateful to my Doc and her team for getting it to me for a 25 dollar co payment.... (12 grand a month... GAWD...), but wasn't exactly looking forward to see what side effects would commence.
All I felt was some big-time grogginess and a bizarre urge to hit the bathroom when I was at a friend's house. I think my dog must have felt some empathy, because when I came out of the bathroom, he squatted down and dropped a deuce on my friend's floor in solidarity---looking up at me with a goofy grin on his face. And he's housebroken!!!!!! Humiliating... Cleaned it up, apologised like a shamed serf and got the beast outside.
I reeled around her house for another half hour, bumping into things and cursing and then decided that this was completely ridiculous, so I drove off and raided the plant nursery at Ace Hardware. Dahlias, Peonies, Lily of The Valley, herbs and lots of dirt. If I'm gonna go down Chemo Lane, it's going to be LOADED with flowers.
As this is also about food, I made this amazing little ramekin dish called Oeufs en Cocotte. You butter a smal porcelain ramekin, put a tablespoon of cream in it and drop it in a quarter inch of simmering water on the stove ("water bath"). When this is hot, you break an egg into the ramekin and let that get hot for a while...then you take this out, drop another tbs of cream on top and add a dollop of butter (unsalted). Toss it in the oven and bake at 375 for 7 minutes.
Take it out and let it set for about five.
Eat.
GLORIOUS.
I love French food. My Grandfather had a disturbing antipathy toward France and all things French, which I found inexplicably odd as that is primarily the DNA on that side of the family, but lucky for me, I do not share this affliction.
Vive la Freakin France, y'all!
All I felt was some big-time grogginess and a bizarre urge to hit the bathroom when I was at a friend's house. I think my dog must have felt some empathy, because when I came out of the bathroom, he squatted down and dropped a deuce on my friend's floor in solidarity---looking up at me with a goofy grin on his face. And he's housebroken!!!!!! Humiliating... Cleaned it up, apologised like a shamed serf and got the beast outside.
I reeled around her house for another half hour, bumping into things and cursing and then decided that this was completely ridiculous, so I drove off and raided the plant nursery at Ace Hardware. Dahlias, Peonies, Lily of The Valley, herbs and lots of dirt. If I'm gonna go down Chemo Lane, it's going to be LOADED with flowers.
As this is also about food, I made this amazing little ramekin dish called Oeufs en Cocotte. You butter a smal porcelain ramekin, put a tablespoon of cream in it and drop it in a quarter inch of simmering water on the stove ("water bath"). When this is hot, you break an egg into the ramekin and let that get hot for a while...then you take this out, drop another tbs of cream on top and add a dollop of butter (unsalted). Toss it in the oven and bake at 375 for 7 minutes.
Take it out and let it set for about five.
Eat.
GLORIOUS.
I love French food. My Grandfather had a disturbing antipathy toward France and all things French, which I found inexplicably odd as that is primarily the DNA on that side of the family, but lucky for me, I do not share this affliction.
Vive la Freakin France, y'all!
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Life's little detours.
One of the horrors of doctor visits are the routine check ups that produce... unexpected results.
For instance, I go for a normal blood lab/check up and am told that my white cell count is at 280,000. It's supposed to be no higher than 20,000. I am then immediately sent to a Hemotologist/Oncologist. This is also told to me at 7:45 in the morning. Hearing both, "I don't know" and "...Oncologist" at Dawn Thirty dwindles the day's normal pursuits to nil.
After a bone marrow biopsy--in which they corkscrew a 20-gauge needle into my rear right pelvic bone and yank out a 1/8" thick piece of bone with marrow attached, it is then sent off to Yale Hospital and biopsied.
Yep... My ass went to Yale.
Sure enough, I have Chronic Myeloid Leukemia.
When the doctor said these words, I'm sure my outward appearance didn't change, but the panoply inside my brain was more or less: "You have Cronic Myeloid Leukemia and....". My hearing ceased at "Leukemia" and that word repeated itself on continuous loop--sounding more and more like Charlie Brown's teacher, Miss Othmar. The Doctor's lips were still moving, but I wasn't actually hearing anything. Memory waxes poetic, I'm sure, but this is my recollection of hearing The News.
In 24 hours, I became a layman's expert on this disease.
Prior to 1991, it was more or less a death sentence, but due to the invention of a medication called "Gleevek"... and now it's second generation, "Sprycell" (interesting name.... as if my cells are about to skip off to a Jazzercise class), it is now possible to send this into a very long remission. How long? No one knows, but everyone in the chronic stage in 1991 who began this drug is still asymptomatic and doing well.
Sprycell is an oral chemotherapy that I will apparently be on for the rest of my life, long or short, until I have a bone marrow transplant. This all sounds rather Grand Guignol, but I apparently a good candidate. I am seemingly "Young and in good health". When I was told this, I wanted to look behind me to see if the Doc was addressing some stallion with perfect teeth, giant biceps and a tan, standing just up right. Apparently the criteria is low.
Today, the meds arrived FedEx.
I have good insurance, thank you Cigna/Actors' Equity... as this crap is TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A MONTH. Due to the work of the Social Worker assigned to this (my) case, I only pay a co-payment of 25 a month. Less than a gym membership.
To a bad gym.
...On the wrong side of town.
So...
Today begins the "Journey", as friends are calling it. Frankly, that sounds a bit too Hallmark-y. How about...
Today I started chemo.
Let's call this what it is.
I have cancer.
Cancer.
It is treatable, manageable and ostensibly the Monaco of cancers, but I hate sugar coating things. Tell me the truth, be direct and then let me know what I can do to kick this sorry, invasive bitch into the dirt where it belongs.
The good thing is, I have this little reminder in my brain to be aware that life is short.
To that I say--Life is short, but it is wide. (Borrowing a quote from Rebecca Wells). I have no symptoms, I feel fine and I plan on continuing that paradigm!
In the meantime folks-- eat well, buy good wine, don't sweat the petite ca ca, make up with your family members and fr-amily members, take your vitamins, call your mother and come by my place for dinner.
For instance, I go for a normal blood lab/check up and am told that my white cell count is at 280,000. It's supposed to be no higher than 20,000. I am then immediately sent to a Hemotologist/Oncologist. This is also told to me at 7:45 in the morning. Hearing both, "I don't know" and "...Oncologist" at Dawn Thirty dwindles the day's normal pursuits to nil.
After a bone marrow biopsy--in which they corkscrew a 20-gauge needle into my rear right pelvic bone and yank out a 1/8" thick piece of bone with marrow attached, it is then sent off to Yale Hospital and biopsied.
Yep... My ass went to Yale.
Sure enough, I have Chronic Myeloid Leukemia.
When the doctor said these words, I'm sure my outward appearance didn't change, but the panoply inside my brain was more or less: "You have Cronic Myeloid Leukemia and....". My hearing ceased at "Leukemia" and that word repeated itself on continuous loop--sounding more and more like Charlie Brown's teacher, Miss Othmar. The Doctor's lips were still moving, but I wasn't actually hearing anything. Memory waxes poetic, I'm sure, but this is my recollection of hearing The News.
In 24 hours, I became a layman's expert on this disease.
Prior to 1991, it was more or less a death sentence, but due to the invention of a medication called "Gleevek"... and now it's second generation, "Sprycell" (interesting name.... as if my cells are about to skip off to a Jazzercise class), it is now possible to send this into a very long remission. How long? No one knows, but everyone in the chronic stage in 1991 who began this drug is still asymptomatic and doing well.
Sprycell is an oral chemotherapy that I will apparently be on for the rest of my life, long or short, until I have a bone marrow transplant. This all sounds rather Grand Guignol, but I apparently a good candidate. I am seemingly "Young and in good health". When I was told this, I wanted to look behind me to see if the Doc was addressing some stallion with perfect teeth, giant biceps and a tan, standing just up right. Apparently the criteria is low.
Today, the meds arrived FedEx.
I have good insurance, thank you Cigna/Actors' Equity... as this crap is TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A MONTH. Due to the work of the Social Worker assigned to this (my) case, I only pay a co-payment of 25 a month. Less than a gym membership.
To a bad gym.
...On the wrong side of town.
So...
Today begins the "Journey", as friends are calling it. Frankly, that sounds a bit too Hallmark-y. How about...
Today I started chemo.
Let's call this what it is.
I have cancer.
Cancer.
It is treatable, manageable and ostensibly the Monaco of cancers, but I hate sugar coating things. Tell me the truth, be direct and then let me know what I can do to kick this sorry, invasive bitch into the dirt where it belongs.
The good thing is, I have this little reminder in my brain to be aware that life is short.
To that I say--Life is short, but it is wide. (Borrowing a quote from Rebecca Wells). I have no symptoms, I feel fine and I plan on continuing that paradigm!
In the meantime folks-- eat well, buy good wine, don't sweat the petite ca ca, make up with your family members and fr-amily members, take your vitamins, call your mother and come by my place for dinner.
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