You know the best thing about thinking
too much? It's... ummm. Well, you can... It lets you... Nothing,
actually. Nothing is the best thing about thinking too much.
But as surely as a blind squirrel will
occasionally find a nut, sometimes all that thinking can produce a
thought that actually works. For example, when I started writing
about having cancer, I struggled with how to position what I was
doing. I didn't want to talk about following my illness, or my
disease; I wanted to write about more than that. I didn't want to use
“fight against cancer” because the idea of me fighting cancer
suggests more control over the situation than I could ever hope to
have.
I settled on “my journey through
cancer” and that seems to have been the right choice. It certainly
is a journey. At first, the fact that I had cancer didn't mean much;
not really. I didn't feel any different, I didn't have to make too
many changes to my lifestyle. Yes, I knew I had cancer because my
doctors told me so, but “What did it mean?”
I've said before, I imagined you could
physically feel the malignant cells chewing their way through your
system, like some ersatz Ms. Pacman. Well, no, that wasn't the case.
Even the treatment was not what I'd
expected. Yes, I was on chemotherapy, but I took it in pill form.
Granted, the instructions that came with the pill said should the
capsule spill its contents for some reason, DO NOT touch if with your
bare skin. The instructions did not suggest a hazmat suit, but I
don't think the manufacturers would object, should you decide to go
that route. Also, when I have to order a new supply, I have to go
through three different people at three different places, each one
asking numerous questions about how I've been taking the drug. The
questions are always the same and so are my answers, but “same as
the last (expletive deleted) time” is, evidently, not an acceptable
answer.
So, that process is annoying, but
still, it is not sitting in a chair with an IV dripping into your
arm. But wait, there's more.
My first oncologist retired and his
replacement- remember it's a journey- deemed me an excellent
candidate for a stem cell transplant and who was I to say no?
As the journey continued, my doctors
discovered a rare chromosomal disorder called chromosome deletion 17p
which has a tremendous impact on how my cancer is treated. I believe
it is by the grace of God that the doctors I have working with me are
actually well aware of this issue and are confident they know the
best way to attack it in order to lengthen the remission I gain from
my stem cell trans-plant.
Now, to address the chromosome issue, I
do sit in a chair and have chemotherapy presented through an IV, as
well as taking the pills.
As for the transplant itself... We can
save that for another day. I don't even know how much of it you would
find interesting. It involves taking some of my own stem cells,
freezing them, subjecting my system to very harsh chemotherapy, then
putting my own stem cells back, after defrosting of course. Since my
life literally depends on taking care of those stem cells, I guess
it's only natural to have had a couple of Far Side moments around it.
The comic panel shows a liquid covering the bottom of a refrigerator
and two doctors looking at it: “Geez George. I thought it was your
turn to make sure the fridge was plugged in!” Tacky, I know. I
won't even tell you about any of the others. No reflection on my
actual care, since numerous redundancies are built in, and my care
team is wonderful. It's just the sort of thing my brain will cook up
just for its own amusement.
Even though it doesn't begin in earnest
until the middle of April, the transplant looms large in our lives,
like the elephant in the room that no one talks about it. Except we
do talk about it, constantly. So technically it's just like an
elephant in the room; too big a thing in too small a place (my
brain). We have so much preparation to be done, arrangements to be
made, financial concerns to be addressed... it is... daunting, to say
the least.
And here's the thing... I still have
time to put a stop to it all. If I say I've changed my mind and don't
want the transplant, the entire cottage industry that is Jim Arnold's
stem cell transplant shuts down and moves on to the next case.
For better or worse, though, I can't do
that; can't even consider it. None of my doctors have talked about...
well, bluntly, how much longer I can live with what's wrong. But, one
thing everyone agrees on: the stem transplant will extend that time
and time equals hope; hope that a cure can be found for multiple
myeloma. We'd still have the chromosome deletion to deal with, but
without the cancer that becomes a whole different issue.
Anyway, this has been my journey to
date. It's like the kid in Family Circus when it shows the route he
took to get home and it wanders all over, but it gets him home
anyway. That's my journey in a nutshell. It's taken me to places I
never thought it would, but the goal remains getting home safe and
sound, with my new pony in the yard. A guy can hope, right?
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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