April 19, 2006
Today was a memorable day. When we reviewed my progress with the doctor at the oncologist’s office this AM, I found that I was removed from the endangered species list, because for the first time, the word “chronic” was used. In January, I was diagnosed with a disease that had no presently known cure, and frantic family searches on the Internet repeatedly found the statistics that said average life expectancy would be under a year. We began the Vidaza, a chemotherapy too recently developed to have a large history, and the new life began. Now, after three full cycles, the red blood cells have continued to increase, along with my energy, and the platelets are in the normal range. The white blood cells remain puny in number, but the neutraphils have recovered enough to be able to put up some defense against infections. I even look healthy, which is something to remark upon when one sees the general gathering in the waiting room. I have been given the go ahead for some work in the garden, and for going out again into the public realm.
Now I begin the fourth round of chemotherapy, and after that is completed, on May 12th, a bone marrow aspiration will be taken – this reading should reveal whether the Vidaza is effecting a change in the architecture of the white blood cells. (The problem remains with the body’s inability to form mature white cells, and Vidaza’s intent is to force these infant cells to grow up and go forth into the blood stream and take care of business rather than floating about, completely useless and taking up space needlessly.) I spoke of my arms getting lumpy from the shots, and instead of getting ten or more additional injections of Neupogen after the Chemotherapy, I will receive just one injection of Neulasta, which apparently does the same thing. (My mental image of the size of that syringe is best left unsaid.)
A fable: In an inner room of a large drug company, a young person is seated at a desk to work at one assignment. She must find names for new drugs as they are developed; the names must have some connection with the purpose of the drug but also must roll off the tongues of doctors and patients alike. One of her assignments was to find a name for Pegfilgrastim – Injectable; Neupogen had already been used as the name for the competitor’s drug offering which had to be given daily. Her company’s drug had the feature of one injection lasting for ten days. She thought and thought, and while she was thinking about names, she was scribbling in her atrocious handwriting on her desk pad. She also had the assignment to find a name for Eszopiclone, a new sleeping aid. After going through Neulongten and Neucellup, she finally scribbled Neulasta. She liked the word so much she wrote it many times, large, small, and with wildly florid lettering. Just then, the head of the Eszopiclone team came by and looked at her note pad. “I like it!” he cried, “it’s genius. . . it’ll sell millions!” He carefully wrote the word “Lunesta” into the palm of his hand, and beaming, went on his way. And so it was that the young woman, through her terrible handwriting, named two drugs with one thought.