Cancer's update

I had the CT scan on Monday. No one weighed me. I went back to the foreign halls of IVs, nurses and scrubs where they poked me with a needle, taped me up and gave me a big-gulp size apple juice with barium contrast inside it. In case you’re wondering, it’s not a tasty après ski drink. I nursed it for the requisite hour and a half. Then they called me back again. I changed into blues and got flat on a hard table. They tested the IV with a speed-racer injection of saline. All systems go. The giant white donut whirled to life and the next bits of information began to cascade into the computers. It was cataloging the progression or regression of my cancer.

Deb and I ate steak and had a nice glass of wine that night to run-off the memories of the testing and the fears of finding out the results with Dr. Javle.

The next morning, Tuesday, Deb and I found ourselves again in the waiting room for Dr. Javle. We sat for an hour, two hours, waiting for him to show. Someone weighed me. I broke the 150 mark and my weight has fallen to 147. This is the lowest I have gone in a long, long time, and is really worrisome for me. I will have to start eating more and more and more. Looks like it’s time for some Ben and Jerry’s!

Dr. Javle showed up in a good mood. My treatments have shrunk my tumors in all cases. I look good for a cancer guy. The past 10-12 weeks of constrained life have indeed accomplished something positive. He was so late because he had already called the liver transplant board at Methodist Hospital to see if they could interview me this week. We’re waiting to see if that happens. We were with Dr. Javle for thirty minutes asking questions about liver transplants and next steps. In short, liver transplants are hard to get, but we are at least on the next stage of the journey.

He also told me I can start working out again. This is, as you know, bitter sweet since I have loved lying around watching Sports Center while others stay fit. Of course that is not true. I will be out there doing something physical now – it’s about time.

Finally, we go to get the stent replaced this morning. I am fasting in preparation; losing more weight. We hope to get the stent in so that we can go into the Holidays with a brand new piece of plastic stuck in my liver. We find out today.

Because it is so present in my thoughts, I have to say that while we have been here one of our close friends who has been so thoughtful to me during my bout with cancer is struggling in his own fight. He is here with his wife and some of their friends and family. They live close to us. They have kids at our school. He loves to fly-fish. They have brought us Howdy Donuts on Saturdays. They are friends. 

Deb and I have been with them several times here and it is devastating. The fiction of the situation has become so real. It sits in a strange “other” zone that comes and goes with distraction; when you engage in a conversation, when you read, when you walk through a crowd, the hospital room with your loved one lying in bed fades. But when you snap back to reality, all the undeniable presence, sadness, and inevitability are still there, demanding engagement.

We are heartbroken to see our friends in this place. Life brings a shocking reality upon which all of us teeter. It helps to remember that loss is not so far away. Hugging a kid, helping with dinner, making the bed, doing a date night, building a fire, wetting a line, taking a hike, having lunch with a friend—these are all extravagant luxuries to be appreciated.