May 20, 2006
At some level, I thought that by now I would be walking onward surrounded by star bursts and rainbows with perhaps a little shimmer in my underwear. Alas. I am already launched into the fifth round of chemotherapy with its ever creative side effects, as well as a cranking up of the Coumadin intake for the possible blood clotting. This medication also presents side effects so the interior landscape is becoming ever more a mystery. Fortunately I do not have exterior manifestations like a Frankenstein creation. The lovely postitive change is in the mind – every so often in the day, “I’m in remission!” comes through, and I find myself grinning and singing out thanks all over again. Instead of feeling only the weight of the chemical war within, now there is a feeling that progress is being made, and a sense that there will be a calm and happy time coming very soon. I have just five more days of Vidaza injections for this round, then in a month, seven more, then a wonderful time of respite.
This morning it is overcast; the orioles that sing with such delight on the sunny mornings were silent in the forest as Alphie and I came past on our first walk of the day. We have two Korean lilac standards that decided to bloom long after the other lilacs made their statement, so the entire front yard is heavily scented and delightful. If the temperatures continue into the high 80’s and low 90’s, they will depart sooner rather than later, but for this moment, there is joy and celebration out there. It is a good day!
Who can describe the feeling of reprieve? I know that today, my spirit flew over the trees, I shouted “Thank You, God!” out the window, and I celebrated hugely the prayers and thoughts that so many of you have wrapped around me. This afternoon, we went in to the doctor’s office grinning and filled with the sheer joy of seeing the other side of the “valley of the shadow”. We said, “Tell us everything, please!” He read the report which said that the Vidaza had knocked the dread count of blasts down from nearly 20% to 0.5%, meaning that the intent of the chemotherapy, that is, releasing the infant white blood cells from the material that kept them perpetually unformed and useless and forcing them into working mature cells, was actually carried out. We said, “What is the future?” He replied that he understood that we would want some black and white, some solid data, etc., and that he didn’t have any for us. He went on to say, “The disease is still in the room; it has just been pushed into the corner.” Yes, yes, we said, but how long would it be held in abeyance? Then he said a startling thing. He said that this a rare cancer, and in his practice, he had only seen seven or eight cases. and the people who had it were, in his words, “old and feeble” and did not live much past six or eight months. He said that some couldn’t survive the therapy, which he conceded was difficult, and with which I have done well. “I am not old, and I am not feeble” I sang out, “so what do you think?” “It’s definitely a remission, and I would guess for six or seven months. And then, when we have to, we can come back with the same therapy, or maybe add a new one to it.” He went on to say that my stem cells have been under attack for a long time, and I simply don’t have the supply that healthy people have to work with. He concluded that I would have two more rounds of chemotherapy to not only keep the disease in the corner, but beat it down more if possible, then we would stop for a while to give the body a rest.
Yesterday, Mother’s Day, began with a trip to the hospital for a blood draw to check the Coumadin needs. I was told that I could not leave there until the oncologist had been contacted and further instructions given. When it appeared that this might mean a lengthy sit in the lab, I said that I really intended to go to church, and couldn’t I be contacted by cell phone? The technician said, “I have instructions here that say I must not permit you to leave until after contact has been made. . . don’t move from that chair.” he concluded sternly. After a bit, he came back in and said, “I can’t get through, and I think you should just go on to church. . . ” I gave him a large smile and said, “Happy Mother’s Day to you, too!” The end result of all that was that I will need six mg. of Coumadin instead of four, and another check on Wednesday. The rest of the day was delightful with fine church services, family checking in, and Charles and I saying to one another once more how lovely our children and children’s children are. 
Today is Alphie’s first birthday. At nearly 100 pounds, he remains “a lotta dog” for us. I have been working with him using the leash and a chain device that when he pulls, metal teeth sink into his neck, making it uncomfortable for him. At first I regarded this with horror, but without such a control factor, he simply drags me along like a minor inconvenience. I was astonished to realize that he doesn’t mind having it placed around his neck; we have training sessions each day and I see progress. Dear friends and Charles are dubious about my ability to train the dog because I think they feel I am too soft hearted. I have high hopes that in another year, we can trust him not to flatten the grand daughters – by then, he’ll be older and they’ll be bigger. He does run free for our forest walks so he can chase rabbits and squirrels and have a purpose in life.