August 26,2008
Last Friday’s meeting with the oncologist did not provide us with any new revelations. “Suspended animation” was one term the doctor used, though that does bring up images of God pushing the cosmic “Pause” button. There are three markers in the blood that give on-going information concerning the status of the MDS. They are the levels of white blood cells (providing immunities), red blood cells (carrying oxygen about the system and giving energy for living) and platelets (keeping the blood from seeping out of the cells and also clotting as needed). In my case, both the red blood cells and the platelets are holding right inside the normal ranges, while the white blood cells are very slowly decreasing. In discussing another course of chemotherapy, the doctor said that it wouldn’t change much from the status quo, since the best it could do would be possibly increasing the red cell count and the platelets, neither of which are in need of increasing, and it would completely wipe out the few white blood cells that I presently have.
I have mentioned before that the state of one’s immunities is measured by computing the ANC, or Absolute Neutraphil Count, derived by multiplying the number of white blood cells by the percentage of neutraphils present in the blood. These numbers are in the thousands, but for practical purposes, they are recorded in accessible numbers, i.e., my white blood count is at 1.47 (normal for women begins at 4.5) and the percentage of neutraphils is 27% (normal begins at 40%). This results in an ANC of 400, with anything below 500 considered not good at all. This means that ultimately, there will be a germ or virus that will enter my system and wreak havoc without any defenses available. We discussed my fatigue, aches and pains, and it was determined that some of that could be the result of depression caused by facing this unknown and living in a constant state of anxiety. (One could leave the world of people, I suppose, and become like Howard Hughes, with all the weirdness of that, but to what end?)
So I will go on with a plan. It will be to conquer the depression and anxiety bit. I wash my hands constantly, and today I am off to see a physical therapist who works with cancer victims in hopes of developing more strengths in the physical self than those that I have have from walking Alphie every day. I ask myself, “What are you afraid of?” and the answer is “Being sick”.
A little story – I asked John-paul if he remembered when he thought Alphie was a bit crazed because of the wildness in his creaturely behavior. “Just look at him now”, I remarked, looking at the great rug of a dog lying in front of the kitchen sink, “talk about mellow!” “Yes”, said John-paul, “he has been lobotimized by love”. I say, “Not a bad way to go”.