So, we visited the radiology oncologist
the other day, mostly to determine if myeloma had already damaged my
right clavicle, which I subsequently fractured during one of my
recent weather-related falls.
Mind you, the fracture was causing me
no pain whatsoever. My ribs and sternum hurt a lot, but the x-rays
showed no breaks and the oncologist chalked it up to severe bruising
that would eventually heal. Good enough.
However... He's fairly sure that the
myeloma had already caused damage to the clavicle and so we are
returning for another cat scan to help him define the area that he
will apply radiation to so that the myeloma cells will be killed
dead, dead, dead for a ducat (with apologies to William Shakespeare).
If possible, he will also look at the initial rib damage suffered
during the wasp attack to see what's up with that.
He assures us the radiation treatments
will be zeroed in on a very small, very specific area, and will not
go especially deep. I will actually have one treatment a day for five
consecutive days and that should be that. Again, good enough.
All this work will be done in Augusta,
which is about 25 minutes from home; an obvious plus in having such a
renowned cancer treatment facility nearby, especially one that works
so closely with my support staff at Dana-Farber/Brigham and Women's
in Boston.
Once again I find myself wondering if
these falls, as much pain and misery as they cost, weren't actually a
blessing in disguise. If multiple myeloma was, in fact, chewing
(oeow) on my clavicle, without the fall, how much damage could it
have done before it was discovered? Instead of an incomplete
fracture, couldn't any subsequent fall have been far worse? Just
askin'.
Earlier in this journey, I wrote about
bucket lists and New Year's resolutions; the thought being that
instead of putting things off to a list, you ought to live each and
every day to the fullest. I still believe that, maybe more than ever.
But here's the thing, at least for me.
Tim Nichols and Craig Wiseman wrote Tim McGraw's country hit song
“Live Like you Were Dying.” It's a great song sung by a great
singer and I loved it long before I got sick. But, right now, when
my reality runs up against the song's inspirational lyrics, my
reality gets its ass kicked.
I think there are probably hundreds of
you reading this right now who know exactly what I mean. Right? My
living life to the fullest doesn't involve sky diving, Rocky Mountain
climbing, or two point seven seconds on a bull named fumanchu. It
doesn't mean going to Nepal to stare at the Himalayas, or finding
people from my past that I know I hurt so that they can see how much
I've changed; how I wouldn't hurt them now.
My living life to the fullest means
staying as strong as I can and filling out the next form, making the
next phone call, applying for grants to offset the cost of my
principal chemo treatment. It means staying as positive as I can,
while realizing that some days that's not going to be very positive.
Sheri and I both need to let people
help us with tasks, mundane and major. Be it positive or negative in
the grand scheme of things, if we'd called someone to drag the
60-pound sandbag down to the cellar door, I wouldn't have fallen and
so on.
I guess now would be a good to remind
myself, and you, that dying does not appear anywhere in my treatment
plan or prognosis. Yet again, good enough! However... let's face it,
my life has been unequivocally altered by all of this. How could it
not be? When The Beatles pondered “When I'm 64,” they didn't
mention cancer, chromosome damage, radiation treatments or stem cell
transplants, did they? Right, and I don't think it was because they
couldn't come up with rhymes that worked.
Live like you were dying? Live like
your life has been unequivocally altered? Who knows. As time goes by
and the amount of paperwork diminishes... when we don't plan our days
around clinic visits, treatments, and phone calls... maybe we can do
some of the cool things. The drawback to that, I guess, is that Sheri
and I consider few things cooler than enjoying each others company
and making each other laugh. I'm able to share how I feel with my
daughters Jennifer and Alison, and my stepdaughter Kristie, rather
than do the crazy cover-up dance my parents always did when there was
bad news in the air. And from what you tell me, I'm able to speak for
a lot of you when I write. So, I guess my life is pretty full at
that.
I actually did want to ride a bull- not
necessarily one named fumanchu- at some point, but a bull
nonetheless. Now, when I even think of it, I hear entire staffs of
medical professionals screaming, “Nooooooooooo.” OK, myeloma, you
win this one, but you better enjoy while you can.
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”
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