Sam leaned against the wall of the dark, packed elevator, eyes closed, wearing a mask. His jeans were covered in vomit. I stood guarding him from falling over and guarding others from the sick person in the clinic, while staring distantly at the floor.
As the door began to open to the sixth floor, I realized how stereotypically “cancer treatmenty” we must have looked. Or maybe something more along the lines of how the cast looks at the end of “The Hangover 2.” They don’t know why Sam can’t keep any food down this week, but the triage nurses got him set up with warm blankets and a bag of fluids, and the excitement died down shortly after we arrived. Sam fell asleep after a few rounds of questions from the nurses. I sat in the dark and played calming music from my phone. Yesterday as we were leaving the clinic after having the same kind of morning as we were today, we learned that Sam’s peripheral blasts shot up to 5%. There’s no option to blame a computer error now. That means that, more than likely, he’s already relapsed and thus, missed his window for the bone marrow transplant, which is his only shot for a cure. A few songs later, the new attending doctor on the Bone Marrow Transplant service came in to meet Sam. They discussed Sam’s nausea and vomiting for a while, and he admitted he didn’t know what is causing it. Next, he addressed the peripheral blasts we’d learned about yesterday afternoon. As we feared, he said he would not recommend a transplant with active leukemia. He said that while Sam’s chances of surviving a transplant remain low, going in with active leukemia means that even if he survived the process, there’d be a high likelihood that his leukemia would relapse once again after it was all said and done. He said he’d set us up with a meeting with Sam’s original chemo doctor – the one who convinced us to come down here and got him into remission back in November. He said she’d be the one who could discuss ongoing clinical trials that might be able to get Sam back into remission without the regimen being too toxic for his system. We’ll meet that doctor tomorrow afternoon to hear what she’s got for us. Meeting with her under these circumstances feels like groundhog day. I’m struggling with the fact that this means that the last three and a half months of Sam’s suffering were for nothing. Sam reminds me that he’d be dead by now if we hadn’t come down, which puts things in a dark, yucky kind of perspective. The doctor left and the lights dimmed again while Sam’s IV fluid drip continued. He fell back asleep. Sitting in the dark once again I realized I’m pretty angry that the doctor last month didn’t jump at moving forward with Sam’s transplant during the short window when he would have been eligible. I’m frustrated with “the system” of the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. I could rattle off a few other upsetting things. But when I really think hard about it, I realize that I’m just mad at cancer. Really mad. I’m mad that Sam isn’t up for doing the things he loves. I’m mad about all the experiences we’re missing out on, with each other and our friends. I’m mad that he’s fighting this for the third time. I’m mad about a buncha’ things, but how useless is that? Sam’s IV pump stopped. He was disconnected and the nurse told him we were free to go, after giving instructions on how to deal with his symptoms the rest of the day, and to call if things worsened. We shuffled out into the hall, this time carrying a bag containing Sam’s vomit-pants, which had been replaced by the most comically massive scrubs you could imagine. We wandered back into the corner of the elevator and out to get in the car looking slightly less “cancer treatmenty” on the outside, but very much more on the inside. Sam fell asleep almost immediately when we arrived back at the apartment. I took myself out to lunch. I laid down by Sam a few hours later as he woke up and he said something that made me laugh. It felt so good to do so after these awful two days. I remembered that, though it sucks, we are capable of making the most of this time. I remembered that while the world and the treatment system and the myriad of doctors and specialists feels big and scary, at least during it all, we can lay in bed together and laugh about how terrible today was for Sam’s pants.
Ellen Bernards
2/8/2017 06:58:33 pm
Thank you so much for sharing your heart wrenching journey. Your love for each other shines through the dark shadows that cancer casts. Blessings and prayers to you both. On loving support - Ellen
Sally Mode
2/9/2017 09:57:18 am
I look up into the cold night sky ... see stars so clearly and think of you both... every time. Sending a warm hug... xo sal
Bev Mangerson
2/9/2017 07:52:02 pm
Always on our minds. Love to both of you
Seth Blackstone
2/9/2017 09:25:49 pm
I am in awe of your strength Sam, keep fighting! 4/2/2017 09:11:28 pm
Nice information provided by you. Thanks A lot and Nice Blog…!!! Comments are closed.
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