Monday Morning Update

Dave (and I) spent the weekend in the hospital getting IV antibiotics, playing Words with Friends, and watching movies. We didn't learn much other than that his white count hasn't really increased significantly. Also, his CT scan was clean, so there was no hidden infection.

His oncologist just visited to confirm that his bone marrow is normal - there is no indication of lymphoma or leukemia or any of the weirder forms of anemia. He firmly believes his body had an autoimmune reaction to a virus - and he's says we'll never know what caused it because all of the tests have been normal. He called it "isolated neutropenia" and says that it's just a random incident and we shouldn't expect this to be the new normal.

He also said if it is related to the lymphoma or the chemotherapy, "it's not known to be." I'm taking that to mean it's possible but he doesn't want to say that for certain. That's only my opinion, of course, since it's hard for me to separate what chemo does to the immune system from what happened in this situation. He also said he usually sees one or two cases like this a year, and he's an oncologist, so...

At any rate, now that they've ruled out The Big Scaries, he can start Neupogen shots. Neupogen is similar to the booster he got after each chemo treatment, and it will stimulate the bone marrow to make white cells. He'll have to get two a day until he reaches the normal level, and he'll still be getting IV antibiotics. Once his absolute neutrophil count (ANC) is 500, he can be released with oral antibiotics. Today, that count is 36.

He should be just fine once he recovers his immune system, so this is all good news. For now, our specific prayer request is for a rapid increase in his neutrophil count so he can go home.

As always, thank you for the prayers thus far. We feel them and we are so grateful.

Port Removal: I nearly fainted.

Nurse: Are you a fainter?
Dave: No.
Doctor: She wasn't talking to you. You can faint if you need to, you're in a recliner.
Me: She was talking to me. If I faint, there will be problems. I think I need to sit down.

That conversation took place while Dave had his port removed last week. I accidentally saw too much while the doctor was giving him shots to numb the area, but I did realize I needed to sit down before my vision went black around the edges. I didn't faint, but judging by the hideous headache I had for the rest of the day, I came pretty close.

While I didn't intend to watch any of the procedure, I happened to be looking at the port when the first shot went in without warning. Then Dave was really uncomfortable, so after all the blood letting and shot giving I've seen in the last few months, I thought I could handle watching the shots long enough to tell him when that part was over. I was wrong.

I can look at blood and cuts and bodily fluids. I can take care of all those things. It didn't bother me to prick my finger four times a day to check my blood sugar during my last pregnancy. But I cannot handle seeing needles in skin, especially not my skin, but not anyone else's either. God willing, I will never have to self-administer shots of any kind (but I'm sure God will equip me if I do).

So, I really am not a fainter, as long as I'm not looking when the needle goes in. And usually I just get a little light-headed if I do see it. Though I've come close a few times, I've only flat out fainted once.

I was a junior in high school when I gave blood for the first time at the SGA blood drive. I did great, looking everywhere but at the needle in my arm. It didn't hurt. I was just chilling on the little bed-table, pouring out some blood. Then I got distracted and looked down at my arm right before the tech took the needle out. I thought I was okay. I was, afterall, lying down. Then I stood up.

Or so they told me. I don't remember my feet ever touching the floor. The next thing I remember is the nurse and the cute boy who caught me leaning over me, asking if I was okay.

I was, of course, and I was okay on port removal day, too, once I sat on the doctor's stool, well below his work area so there was no risk of me seeing anything else I didn't need to see.

The port came out of an incision directly over the one it went into, and then Dave was sewed up again with dissolvable stitches and steri-tapes. He's finished. He doesn't even have to go back to the surgeon for a follow up. The whole deal took about 20 minutes.

Dave says he feels official now. Officially, done with cancer, chemo, and foreign objects in his body.

And to that I say: Amen.

My Dark Place

I have been struggling.

Or wallowing, if you like, in a pit of negativity, worry, and bitterness. It wasn’t the devil this time, at least he wasn’t in control the way he was the last time I got like this. I’m sure he has been poking at me, taking advantage of my weakness, but this time it was all me. I’ve been doing the things I am supposed to do – filling my heart and mind with praise and worship and Bible reading – but I’ve still acted like the unworthy sinner that I am and relished the wallowing instead of overcoming it.

It’s why I haven’t blogged in a while, or written anything at all. I’ve learned that when I get like that, it’s best to stay away from the blog lest the bitterness ooze out in my words and be preserved forever. That’s not what I want, though it’s probably when I should be writing the most.

I’ve also worried that some of you are tired of reading about cancer or just tired of reading what I write at all, so in my mind, I quit writing a thousand times. In my mind, I shut down the blog and my Facebook page. As punishment – though I don’t know who the punishment is directed at except me. When I’m despairing, I withhold information because I assume that no one cares what I have to say or what I’m struggling through. People have their own lives to live, their own struggles to attend to. They don’t need my drama on top of that. I know what it’s like to be filled to the brim, stretched to capacity with struggle, trying not to overflow on the nearest person who makes a well-intentioned but poorly worded comment that I take badly simply because I cannot process anything else. I don’t want to be the commenter and I try to limit my exposure to the comments.

But truthfully, though I came very close, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shut down the blog. It’s been my own personal space on the web since 2006 and I couldn’t end it now just because I’m struggling to claw my way out of a pit. And, though I came much closer to deactivating my Facebook page, I couldn’t do that either. It’s where most of you pick up the blog link, and it gives me a comfortable channel of communication with people I want to be in contact with that I would probably never call on the phone, because I’m very bad at calling people.

So I’ve been in this pit, worrying and trying to figure out if I should continue to blog about our journey through cancer and chemo or if enough is enough already, until last night when Dave’s Nana called to check on him. He had his fifth round of chemo on Monday (most of you didn’t know because I didn’t tell). We talked for a few minutes and she gave me the perspective I needed to resolve my wallowing two-fold. First, she told me, “I asked the kids [the ones who live near her] if you had posted anything on the Internet or whatever you do, but they said you hadn’t.” Nana is 90, if you’ll remember – it was her birthday party we missed the day after Dave had surgery. Even she is looking to the Internet for information, though she doesn’t have a computer of her own. Then, when I reluctantly told her that Dave wasn’t home because he was playing golf (yes, two days after chemo), she responded with laughter and, “That’s wonderful! That made my day that even though he feels bad he’s playing golf.”

Indeed. That’s exactly how I feel about it, too. My heart rejoices when he says he wants to try to play a few holes because it means he’s feeling a little better, even if just for an hour or two. I haven’t been forthcoming with this information because I assume that people will think, “If he’s well enough to play golf then why is she making such a big deal about all of this chemo business?” But golf or not, it is a big deal and thanks to Nana for snapping me out of it.

I will assume that if you are tired of reading about cancer, you will not be visiting this blog for a while, and that if you are here reading, you are interested in knowing what is going on with us. I can’t stop writing it, and while we know that life goes on around cancer, it doesn’t stop it from being.

Round 5, we’re in the middle of it. He’s not feeling well yet, but he did manage a round of golf. It’s cathartic for his mind and makes him feel like he’s doing something productive for his body. The goal in the 48 hours after chemo is to flush out the poison with fluids and sweating. He sweats plenty while simply sleeping, but when he feels well enough to get up and move around, he likes to sweat in the sunshine while doing something. He woke up truly hungry today and he went to his office, but only after, “Where’s my Zofran, woman?” Can you see how crazy this is? He feels okay one hour and bad the next, he doesn’t need the anti-nausea meds for half a day some days and but he might need it before he gets out of bed the next. Roller.Coaster. Anyway, we are both back at our respective offices today, reclaiming normal. He has another nine days of medicine to take before this cycle moves into the rest phase and we relax into the fun week.

Though the 4th of July wouldn’t have been our first choice for chemo week, it was nice to have a day off in the middle of it. The kids soaked him up. They usually go four or five days of barely seeing him during chemo week (because he goes to bed so early) and they miss him terribly. Our day off yesterday gave them time to play with him during the hours when he was feeling well, and play they did. Together and apart, they were all over him all morning – Barbies and trains and babies and games, until he cried Uncle and I herded them out to the pool for a while. This morning Luke woke up and immediately told him, “Daddy! Play!” When he had to leave him alone with his trains to get ready for work, Luke came running into the kitchen to tell me, “Mama, Daddy work!” It’s as if even the littlest one recognizes the good of him going back to the office after a few days of feeling bad.

Round 4, Check.

There's not much to report this time since I found myself able to write during this round of chemo, and thus, less traumatized. In the previous treatment rounds, I've been sort of paralyzed by the whole thing but I guess I've adjusted more than I realized to this episode of our lives.

Once again, he moved straight from week one side effects to week two side effects without an energy crisis in between. I read recently that some cancer patients' experience their bodies adjusting to the low blood counts so they don't feel as exhausted in later rounds of treatement when the blood counts reach their lowest points. We know Dave's bottom out around day 7 and 8, but for the last two rounds he hasn't crashed during those days so I guess his body is compensating.

Here's a little education in layman's terms, if you want it (remembering that I got my medical degree from the University of Google). Lymphoma is a blood cancer, specifically of the lymphocytes - the parts of the white blood cells that make up the immune system. Essentially, some of the normal cells in his lymph system morph into cancer cells (like gremlins changing from cuddly cute things to monsters when they get wet). The chemo drugs he gets every three weeks are designed to wipe out his white blood cells so that the cancer cells that are mixed in with the normal cells will be killed. He also gets a shot with each round (24 hours later) that stimulates his bone marrow to make more white blood cells. That medicine helps his body recover his immune system, but it doesn't take full effect until day 7 or 8 of the cycle - thus, days 7 and 8 are when his white blood count (WBC) is the lowest. Starting day 6 of the cycle, he takes antibiotics for five days to protect his body from bacterial infections. This is also when he's supposed to stay away from crowded places (like the county jail) and sick people. Today is day 10 and his last day of antibiotics, and that means we are well on our way to the rest portion of this round.

Next week, he'll be feeling almost normal again and he gets a bonus week of rest this time. He and his doctor negotiated the next treatment for the first week of July to give his body a little extra time to make white blood cells and to accomodate his work schedule. This means extra fun time for us!

So, for two and a half weeks, we play and then onto the business of round five.

Chemo Day

The waiting room at the Bruno Cancer Center is a bizarre and busy crossroad of lives. I sit in a chair in the corner,  so I can see the majority of the room (save for the chairs that are blocked by the aquarium in the middle) but most importantly, the door where Dave goes in. I like to watch the traffic and try to guess who is here for the first time, who is in the middle of treatment, and who is here for follow up. I want to see the nurses when they come out in case one of them is looking for me.

Also, I've scoped out the place and my chair is one of the few next to an electrical outlet, which is necessary if I'm going to work while I wait.  Sometimes I work, sometimes I Google, sometimes I read. Today, I've done a little of all of that and addressed birthday party invitations for Ella. Last time, I worked the whole day, with my business all spread out around me, talking on the phone and annoying my fellow waiters. I sent my dad a message that day to tell him, proudly, that I had been acting just like him all day. (When he waited with me for Dave to have his port put in back in March, we both spread our business out around us and worked, him borrowing my notebook, glasses, and laptop because he wasn't planning to work until he saw me with all of my work things. It was classic Wyattness.)

It's really hard to focus on anything for very long because there is so much traffic in and out of this place. Dave has one of the longest chemo treatments, so we get here first thing in the morning when there are usually only 2 or 3 other people here, and we leave late in the afternoon, when the crowd has thinned out. That means I get to watch a group of people pass through in the morning and then be replaced by a new group in the afternoon. Some people bring a herd of people with them and some come completely alone. I'm not sure how that works. Maybe they don't get Benadryl with their chemo cocktail? Or maybe they have a ride coming later?

All these people make for good People Watching. I like to listen to their conversations and try to figure out who has cancer, what kind, how old they are, etc. And also, sometimes they are just funny.

There is one pair of older ladies, always dressed to the max with jewelry and shoes that put my t-shirt and flip flops to shame, that I've sat next to twice now. They come in the morning. The husband of one of the ladies has cancer and I'm convinced that one brings the other lady along for entertainment while she waits. Today, armed with new iPhones in pink Otterboxes, they were discussing whether or not they had the Timeline on Facebook, how to create notes on the iPhone for their grocery lists, and looking at a picture on Facebook of so-so's new wife whom no one knows is married. They left before lunch.

While they were here, another family of husband, wife and 2 grandchildren came in and sat beside us. The wife has cancer. The children were young, a boy around 5 years old and a girl about 12 months, she sort of walked but mostly crawled. And she tried to take Fancy Lady's phone and magazine. They also left before lunch.

After them, an older man sat down next to me with a lap desk, a Bible, and a stack of mail. He actually initiated a conversation with me because I'm wearing my Job 13:5 shirt today. (I almost never initiate conversation in waiting rooms because I'm socially awkward with strangers.) I found out that his stack of mail was actually tests from a prison correspondence course - a Bible study - that he and his wife help facilitate. His wife had cancer and they come back to Birmingham once a year for her follow up appointments. They live in Georgia now but they like these doctors. The wife grades the multiple choice part of the test, then the husband reads and comments on the discussion questions. Their daughter got her Master's degree in audiology at the University of Montevallo. He and his wife live near her now to take care of their grandkids while she works a few days a week. She actually called and asked them to move to Georgia to do that and they did. I told him I thought they are doing good work, both with the prison ministry and the grandkids. And it got me thinking, my introverted self could grade tests for Biblical correspondence courses...

Then as I was answering the question about Dave's profession, another man sat down with us and volunteered that his brother was a criminal defense attorney until he finished his 17th capitol murder trial and decided he needed to do something else. His wife has cancer, and he's still here waiting for her to finish her treatment.

There is another man here who had a visit from his son, daughter-in-law and baby granddaughter while he waits. I'm not sure who he's here with, but I presume it's his wife. He's still waiting, but the baby is gone.

There's a whole group of people on the other side of the room that I watch, but can't hear. I keep track of the young ones because there aren't many. Most of the people here are 40 or older. I keep track of who has lost their hair and who is in a wheelchair that wasn't last time. I wonder how often they have to come.

I really like it when there are little kids here because they liven the place up a little. But there aren't many kids because treatments take hours and there is nothing to do here but read 8 year old magazines and watch Judge Somebody loudly berate young idiots about their failure to use birth control (a point I agree with, though at a lower volume).

I check on Dave periodically but I can't stay with him because the treatment room is a large open space with lots of chairs separated by little walls so the patients can't see each other, and so they can pretend they don't hear each other. When I'm back there, I take note of the young ones as I scurry into his little space, trying not to invade the others' privacy and disliking the wide-open feeling of many sets of eyes on me as I walk through the door. I bring him snacks and lunch and try not to bug him if I think he might be sleeping. When he's finished, he comes out looking wholly normal without even a visible bandaid since his port is in his chest. Then we go home.

This is what Chemo Day looks like for me.

Thinking Back, Living Forward

It’s been just over 2 months since Dave’s surgery. There are still unknowns, but we are in a much better place now. We know that the surgeon got all of the tumors, that the surrounding tissue did not show evidence of cancer. We know that his PET scan showed “no measurable amount” of cancer left in his body after the surgery. We know that his type of lymphoma generally responds well to chemotherapy and that the majority of the time chemo will cure it. We know what the chemo does to his body and how to manage the side effects. We know how long he will feel bad and when he will feel good again after a round of chemo.

We are very optimistic that this is just another episode in our lives to be survived rather than an ending.

I am glad to be in this place, where we know what is going on and we have some reassurance for the future. But occasionally I flash back to the lowest moments immediately following his surgery and I’m consumed with the emotion all over again. Sometimes I’m overcome with the feelings I had while I sat beside him in the dark each night in the hospital, wondering what this meant for us, where we would go from there, if he would be alive the same time next year. I was so scared. For him, because I had no idea what he would have to endure and for us because I didn’t know if we’d still have him.

Sometimes I think back over the sadness of a conversation we had one Friday afternoon, after his first oncology appointment, before we had any real information about his diagnosis and treatment plan. I told him that I truly didn’t believe he was going to die, but that I knew that I would be okay if he did. That I didn’t want to think about my life without him in it because he is my best friend in this world, but that if he came to a point where he was holding on to life for me when he needed to say goodbye, I would be able to let him go. Because I would rather he be in Heaven waiting for me than suffering on earth with me.

He has no intention of dying this year and we are planning for his full recovery, but it’s important for me to capture the low points in words to help me process those feelings that bubble up and to help me remember how far we’ve come in two months.

This was a life event that changed me. While the process is sometimes painful, I’m confident that the results will be worth it. If nothing else, my life was brought into razor sharp focus and my perspective was adjusted. The things that don’t matter are clear and so are the things that do.

God is in the forefront of my mind most of the time now in a way He wasn’t before. I find myself considering my words and actions with the questions, “Does what I’m about to write/say/do reflect God’s glory? Does it make it evident that I’ve been with Jesus?” My humanity still gets the best of me, often, but I am trying to take that breath and consider the testimony I’m living. I’m a work in progress.

My nucleus, the man that God made for me and the little souls He put into my care, they teach me new things every single day and they constantly remind me of the importance of time. They are infinite sources of joy and laughter. They keep me busy living.

My family, those outside of my household – both of my blood and of my heart, has bound itself around us and lifted us up, held us together when I could not. It’s a surprisingly extensive family. I’m awestruck and humbled by it. It’s one of the things that matters a lot.

I was asked recently if I wanted to go back to the fall of last year, before any of this happened, when everything was still normal. My answer was unequivocally, “No.”

I have grown and I have been richly blessed through this trial. I would not undo it. This is our normal now.

We Survived Round Two

Dave's second chemo treatment was last Monday, and last night, ten days later, he gave me the clue that it was over: "It feels good to feel good again." Also, he went to bed at normal time - that is to say that he fell asleep in the chair, watching TV in the 8:00 hour. That's normal.

I think this round went smoother for both of us, mentally speaking. I didn't lose my mind and I successfully fended off the devil the few times he tried to hijack me (thanks for the prayers and Bible verses to help me handle that bit of business). Luke was pitifully sick for a couple of those days, so between him hanging on me like a baby monkey and his inability to sleep through the fever, I was ripe for losing it. But I didn't. I take absolutely zero credit for that. That was God working as a result of you praying. And when I was able to leave Dave on Thursday and go back to my office, I rejoiced all the way there for the hour of alone time I have during my drive to work. By Thursday of last week, I desperately needed some alone time.

And that night, Grandmother kept both kids so I got to sleep. I was in my bed at 7:58 that night and asleep before 9. I didn't get up again until it was my turn to shower the next morning. It's amazing what a full night of sleep will do for your soul. Friday, Grandma and Pop the Pop cleaned the house for us. Monday, Rebecca brought supper. All those things made Chemo Week easier for us this time.

I've already consulted My Favorite Sister about organizing meals for us for the future rounds, because having food show up at the house already ready to eat is a lifesaver on the days that Dave is out of commission and the howler monkeys are screeching. I didn't realize how much I need that until this week, when it happened twice. Also, some of you who brought food after Dave came home from the hospital? That's still helping us because I was packing some of those meals away in the freezer like a mouse storing up grain for winter. 

Dave probably worked too hard the first couple of days after chemo this time, but he had a busy schedule and he was insistent that he keep it. So we did. I just went to work with him so I could drive if he needed me to, and just be there with him. I think that helps. Physically, he says he thinks it affected him about the same as the first treatment, and he followed pretty much the same up and down pattern that I mentioned after the first treatment. That's encouraging because it means we should have about a week and a half of fun days before round three.

Finally, the update I know you've all been waiting for: His eyebrows are still hanging in there.

"Well It Certainly Sucks"

Monday afternoon I got a text from Dave: "It's coming out. Right on schedule I guess." He meant his hair. His oncologist told us it would start falling out 14 days after his first chemo treatment.

We didn't own any clippers, so that night at supper we discussed his options.
1. Go to Great Clips and ask them to shave it. - He didn't want to pay for it.
2. Cut it with scissors and shave it with a razor. - We didn't feel like doing it once Luke was asleep.
3. Get a Flowbee. - Which led to: "Oh, we could vacuum you!" He told me we'd do it and I could put it on the blog.


We don't have a Flowbee, but we do have a vacuum.

It worked about like it does on the dog; it got the loose hairs but didn't do much else. We decided to wait a day and see what happened.
He had a new party trick. He could pull out clumps of hair, and he did all day long until the floor in Luke's hospital room looked like this.

Has somenone been cutting hair in here?

We had to shave it. He was shedding everywhere. He even commented that he'd have to vacuum our stairs again if we didn't do something soon. So, on the way home from the hospital we stopped at Target to buy clippers.

He went to work when we got home - shaved it with clippers and then finished it with a razor.

Last look at Hairy Dave.

I think he loves his bald head.

Last night at bedtime, he made some threatening remarks about how cold his head was and the temperature at which I keep my sleeping chamber, so I found him a hat to sleep in. Touching the thermostat at bedtime is a no-no, even if you do have cancer and a bald head.

And so, he's bald. None of the kids freaked out about it because we made sure they were around for the whole shaving process. Jake was the most enthusiastic - feeling all over his head as if to ask, "What happened to your hair, Uncle Dave?"

The Chemo Coaster

The first chemo cycle is nearly over. That means he got the chemo, felt like crap from the drugs, felt better, then felt like crap again from the low blood counts, and now feels better again. I've drawn a highly scientific graph to give you a visual.


Highly Scientific Visual Representation of a Chemo Cycle

From now until the next round, he should feel pretty good (they say and we hope). He'll be getting chemo every three weeks. The first two weeks of the cycle are when the drugs and his body work the hardest, the third is for rest and recovery to get him ready for the next round.

We've been up and down, up and down. It's like chemo is playing a head game, and that's the hardest part for me. I'm okay with down. I'm great with up. I suck at rapidly switching between the two - but then, we know I struggle with transitions. Just like a toddler, I need lots of warning before a change. Hopefully, now that I know generally what to expect, I'll be better prepared to ride the Chemo Coaster with him. I know that my mental state greatly affects his ability to cope, so it's important that I keep myself together.

And, thanks to last week's insanity, now I know that when I start to come apart at the seams, I need to grab the loppers and unleash my nervous energy on the overgrowth in our yard. Luckily, we don't love yard work, so there's plenty that needs lopping. Next up? The Camellias. I don't think they are supposed to be shade trees.

I'll leave you with my favorite thing I've heard today (and there have been some good ones since Luke learned how to turn on the extra phone and interrupt a conversation).

"I feel great!" - Dave, enthusiastically, during our lunch time check in.

It was good for my soul.

The Sick One Speaks

Dave wrote this for us and he said it all so much better than I would have. Enjoy!

I have had many opportunities to count my blessings during the past few weeks. Strangely, I did not have to look very hard to find an overwhelming number of blessings, even while confined to a hospital, connected to various tubes and devices, recovering from surgery digesting the news that I had cancer and violently hiccupping.

I thanked God over and over and over again for the blessings as they came to mind. Among them were the many friends, relatives, church members and even a few people I did not know who visited me in the hospital. There was also my amazing wife and a new appreciation I gained for her love and devotion to me during the whole experience. I made a vow to stay with her through sickness and health eight years ago. She made the same vow to me. I learned what that meant during my hospital stay. She. Would. Not. Leave. Me. Thank God. I am extremely blessed to have such a dedicated partner and I am better for having learned of her dedication that I so very often take for granted.

Perhaps the thing I am most thankful for is that I have this cancer and not any other member of my household. I cannot imagine myself in Amanda’s role as caretaker and supporter. I had the easy part of all of this. I was told I have a disease, cut open, stitched back together and told to get lots of rest. Amanda was the one left to sit in hospital waiting rooms, call the family together, talk to the doctors, fill me in on things I missed while under the influence of heavy narcotics and sit by my side at the hospital for days on end all while worrying about our two children and wondering what the future would bring for our family. Once at home, Amanda shouldered the large majority of the household chores for several days, kept the kids fed, bathed and entertained and made sure I was properly encouraged, medicated and attended to while I laid around the house, watched television and slept. She has had the hard part of all of this and I am extremely blessed that I am the one who is “sick” because I don’t think I could have handled things if it was Amanda.

But I would have. Somehow and some way, I could have dealt with Amanda being sick. I would in no way have been the champion that she has been to me, but I would have muddled through, with much more help from family and friends than she required, and survived.

The thought I cannot imagine is that of Ella or Luke being diagnosed with cancer and forced to undergo medical treatment and hospitalization. This is the greatest blessing I have encountered through my experiences of the past four weeks. I thank God multiple times each day that I am the one with the illness and not my children. I can deal with pain, surgery, giving blood and bone marrow, taking treatments and whatever else may come my way. Let me hurt every day the rest of my life if I don’t have to see pain, hurt and fear on the faces of my two precious babies. Thank you God that they are well. I don’t know how I would make it if they were not.

But many parents do. There are many who have to experience their children being diagnosed with cancer and watch them endure the pains and fears associated with the treatments and the disease itself each and every day. And they are all much stronger than I ever want to become.

Last year we participated in a Trike-a-Thon through Ella’s school to raise money for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. We enjoyed the experience and Ella had a great time on her tricycle. We were amazed at the generosity of our family and friends in donating to this cause. Amanda asked today if we should participate in raising money for the event again this year, considering all that we have going on in our lives right now and all of the assistance we have already received during the past month. We absolutely should and will. We have the tremendous blessing of not having to know what the families serviced by St. Jude live through on a daily basis. The least we can do is contribute to the cause. Thank you God that my kids are healthy and well. I don’t know how I would make it if they were not.

So, as we did last year, we have again set up a fundraising page for Ella’s Trike-A-Thon and would appreciate any contributions you would like to make: EGR's Trike-a-thon page. Thank you for the prayers and support you have given me during the past days. I am going to be fine. I am blessed beyond all imagination and I feel that we should do what we can to pass it along.

As always, please only give as your heart moves. If this doesn't interest you, please do not feel obligated to donate. The Trike-a-thon takes place on April 13th, so we have until then to see how much money we can raise. Thanks in advance!

Sweet Answered Prayer!

Dave talked to the oncology nurse this afternoon and she relayed the message that his bone marrow came back normal, his heart function is normal, his PET scan shows "minimal disease," and they want him to start chemotherapy next Tuesday! I don't exactly know what "minimal disease" means, but we'll take it.

He still has to have his port put in, and that is scheduled for the end of next week, so they might actually start the chemo a week later. We'll find out about that on Monday.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the prayers! Please keep them coming; we know the treatment isn't going to be a cakewalk. But for now, I'm squealy excited - spontaneous, uncontrolled squealing bursting out of my body in fits of joy. It's like new car squealing, but more. And better.

"Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands." - Psalm 100:1

I have a confession.

I have an inappropriate sense of humor. I laugh at things that most people probably find offensive or, well, inappropriate. Dave is usually on my wavelength - either laughing with me or making me laugh at completely inappropriate times. Like the time we were at a wedding and, during the middle of the vows when the preacher asked, "What token do you bring...?", Dave turned to me and whispered, "The fatted calf." I was laughing, quietly, so hard that tears were running down my face with the effort of containing it. People were turning around to look. Now of course, he doesn't even have to say anything in the middle of a wedding ceremony, he can just look at me knowingly and I'll start laughing.

I laugh because it's fun and because sometimes it's either that or fall apart. And who wants to do that? So it's not at all surprising to me that in the middle of our most serious personal situation to date, I find myself laughing at the most inappropriate things. Namely, Dave.

He's mostly with me, but I occasionally hit a soft spot and realize I've gone too far and need to take it easy on him. Like when I received a chat from a friend of ours telling me to take a close up of his eyebrows because I probably wouldn't see them for a while after he starts chemo. I found that hilarious, mainly because it hadn't occurred to me that he'd lose his eyebrows, too, and I laughed out loud. When I told Dave about it, he just wasn't very amused. (I had an elaborate plan to take before and after pictures of his eyebrows and write a post about them, but I don't think he's going to let me. Party pooper.)

But just a little while ago, he completely exploited his recent, dramatic weight loss to make me laugh and laugh. I was making fun of the shorts he was wearing because they were all bunched up when he tied them on his waist with his belt. He changed to another pair and said, "These aren't much better. Look at this." Then he proceeded to perform a hula routine that jiggled those shorts all the way to the floor. He thought it was funny, too, so I was safe that time.

Sure, it will suck for him to lose all of his hair, but it's just hair. It will grow back. Sure, the reason for the weight loss sucks, but he's presently thrilled to be able to eat whatever he wants and not gain weight. Why not laugh? It's certainly more fun than being depressed over it.

My point is, I have an inappropriate sense of humor and you are going to see it here about chemo and cancer and all manner of other serious things. If it offends you, well, as my Grandma used to say, "I hate it."

We Aren't Good Waiters

And I don't mean the kind that serve food at restaurants, though I'm pretty sure I'd suck at that job, too.

We (I think I have to stop saying "we" so much, as it isn't my body I'm talking/writing about.. this time.) were supposed to have an appointment with an oncologist at the end of this month. That wasn't really acceptable for a variety of reasons, so we got a referral to the Bruno Cancer Center at St. Vincent's. The first appointment was this morning and we got good news.

He has an intermediate-grade lymphoma that is highly treatable, generally with chemotherapy alone. While we were there today, he had a bone marrow test done. Next week they'll do the PET scan to figure out what stage it's in. In the midst of that, the pathologist at St. Vincent's will review the slides of his tumors to confirm the diagnosis and make sure there isn't some weird variation that would make the treatment more complicated. There is a small possibility that it could be in his bone marrow and that would also make the treatment more complicated. Hopefully we'll find out that everything is as straight-forward as it appears and he can get started with chemo in the next couple of weeks. He is still recovering from a major surgery, so a couple more weeks of rest certainly aren't going to hurt him.

We both loved the doctor and the general friendliness of the cancer center. It felt like we were supposed to be there and greatly helped our comfort level with this process. I have no idea what chemo will do to him, but I imagine we still have a pretty crazy road ahead of us.

The kids are hanging in there but the stress is starting to show at times. I saw that the cancer center can hook us up with a support group for children of cancer patients, so that might be something we look into as we get into the treatment phase. I know that Ella is very worried even though she's not saying much right now. Every night she says a special prayer for Daddy and she'll ask just enough questions to let me know she's trying to figure this out. Luke is velcro. We can't leave his sight, and even when we are with him, he regularly does a roll call of all his people just to get a status update - even the dogs. He's also nursing more now that he has in months. I'm just going with it. It's been an abnormal month, even for us.

Quick Update

We came home Friday morning and Dave slept most of the day. He woke up Saturday ready to go to Ella's first soccer game. We did and afterward he requested pizza for lunch. I was thrilled to see him eat an entire piece, then he slept most of the rest of the day. This morning, he woke up ready for church and still felt well enough, and hungry enough, afterward to stay for lunch. It does my heart good to see him wanting to eat again.

We don't know anything else about the lymphoma right now. He has an appointment with the oncologist at the end of the month to find out more about the pathology and talk about what to do next. We know there is a PET scan in the future and probably a bone marrow test but for now his job is to heal. While is energy level is increasing every day and he's already getting stir crazy, his body is in no shape for additional testing or treatment right now.

Please continue to pray as we wait for more information and slowly get back to our normal lives. Thanks for the prayers, calls, messages, visits, meals, cards - all of it. It means more than I can say.

I'll leave you with this cuteness - pictures I received one morning in the hospital.

It's hard to believe, but I promise I'm the mother of these children.

This one especially looks like her father, and much older than 3 1/2.

This is his very focused Cheese! face.

We are so very glad to be home and together again.

Around the Hospital

Now we know that Demerol is very good, and it makes Dave very funny.

After the first round of Demerol finally gave him some relief from the pain Saturday morning, Dave told the nurse, “Now, I’d like to air some grievances.” Then he blabbered out some nonsensical things about the morphine that didn’t work and the food tray that should not have come to his room. He was very serious and he made no sense at all. I giggled freely while the nurses tried not to. That’s a perk of being the wife.

“He scared me last night when he grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go.” That’s what the tech told me in the hallway after she encountered Demerol Dave in the middle of the night while trying to take his temperature. He really was not going to let go. I had to intervene.

In response to Dave telling her that he wasn’t taking the Demerol anymore, the night nurse said, “Oh, that’s too bad. You were kind of entertaining.”

He stuck to oral pain medicine after the first day.

Know what else is good? Thorazine. It stops hiccups. For real, people, they have a drug that stops hiccups. I only wish they’d given it to him sooner, but whatever, at least he got to sleep last night. Valium and Phenergan helped, but they kept coming back until he had Thorazine.

We’ve been here a full week now, and there have definitely been ups and downs. I think the biggest ups are when we get to sit outside for a few minutes and when we see the kids. They get so excited. So do we. The first day they came to see us when we had to meet them in the waiting room (because they weren’t allowed in the room), Luke was waiting outside the hall door and he started yelling, “Daddy! Daddy!” We parked Dave’s chair in the waiting room to play, and then we had to go back to the room for a few minutes to see the doctor. When we came back, Luke greeted us at the door again and escorted us back to the waiting room where he patted the floor so we would know where to park him. He wasn’t finished with Daddy yet.

Yesterday, Dave didn’t feel well enough to go to the waiting room, so I went by myself. Once Luke had loved on me for a minute, he took me by the hand and pulled me to the door, telling me, “Daddy!” I explained that Daddy wasn’t coming because he was taking nap. He tried twice more to run through the door and down the hall before I could get him. Today, we have a new room and the kids are allowed here. They came for a couple of hours and Luke had to get right up on the bed with Dave and talk about his incision: “Daddy. Bo-bo?” He needed to see it. Dave showed him and he was quite impressed.

Ella, upon seeing that we had hung up the penguin picture she made, said, “Oh, you put up your penguin. That’s so cute!” She had a project for Dave today. They shared the rolly table and colored a princess. She also writes him a note on his board when she’s here. She has been such a trooper through this experience. Her gracefulness right now is absolutely God working because she is completely out of her normal routine, and she is a child who needs routine.

As for Dave, we got verbal confirmation last night that his cancer is lymphoma. It’ll still be another day or so before we know what kind. I have to be perfectly honest and say that having that oncologist stand in the room and talk about PET scans and chemotherapy made the whole cancer aspect of this situation very real for me. I had a moment. I found the little chapel downstairs and cried myself dry. I came back to the room and told Dave I was freaking out, and from his sleepy haze he said, “Go wipe your worries on the spot.” I did it, then and a few more times, and I’m much better today. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there, but for now we are just trying to get home.

Our Door Sign

Dave has had so many visitors during his hospital stay that I had to start keeping a list because there’s no way my Mommy Brain would remember them all. I’m beginning to understand why people feel called to visit others in the hospital. It’s not my usual M.O., but we’ve been loved by so many people, and the visits have been so appreciated, that I think God is working on my poor introverted soul about this.

We have a sense peace about this new adventure in our life, and truthfully, right now we are focused on his recovery from surgery so our family can live together in our house again soon. It’s quite a project, this recovery. Saturday was hideous, and most people who visited either found him sleeping or encountered his alter ego, Demerol Dave (more about him in another post). Sunday was a much better day, one with a lot less Demerol and a lot more Regular Dave. He got up and showered, and took several walks. We saw the kids. He actually got hungry. Monday started out great. I went home to get something I needed for work, and by the time I came back, he had already showered and dressed (and tied is shoes- that’s hard to do with a 12 inch incision in your belly) and was ready to go. We walked all over the hospital and found the little prayer garden so he could sit in the sun for a few minutes for the first time in a week. All was well until he broke out in a fit of hiccups that lasted SIX HOURS. Holy moly. He was having reflux with them, so his throat and chest were on fire, and after six hours of hiccups, his belly was sore, too. It took 2 doses of Valium, some Tums, and finally, a shot of phenergan to stop them – and knock him out. It was the nurse’s idea to try the phenergan because, “It sounds like he’s throwing up.” It did. I kept jumping up with the vomit cup, but I am very conditioned to react to that sound. I’m so glad I didn’t have to listen to that all night.

Through all this work of recovery, we’ve had plenty of time to discuss all that has happened since last Tuesday, usually in the middle of the flippin’ night. It was during one of these conversations that he told me that he really feels very positive about this whole cancer situation but he feels like some of his visitors are projecting their worry onto him. I decided then and there to make a sign for his door. This is what it says, but it doesn’t look this professional. I wrote it in marker, just like the old days when I was The Birthday Sign Maker at Lucky’s. I even signed it “Thanks, Management,” which apparently freaked out the hospital staff. Oops.

We can both feel the prayers wrapped around us. We know that God is working here. We can see it in every step of the process – the timing, the people - every little thing. With that sense of peace, there’s really no room for worry in our hearts right now. We aren’t dwelling on the tumors that the surgeon removed, but we are praising God for the pain that brought him here to find those tumors. He doesn’t feel or look sick, and he says that even with the pain from the surgery he feels better than he has in weeks. That’s a blessing! He told me last week that he just wants to be able to play with his kids and not be so tired all the time. Well guess what? Now we know why he was so tired. And we’re fixing it. So, though you may be worried, please bring your joy when you call or text or email or visit – because really, there’s no room for worry right now. We have work to do.

And, thank you to everyone who has prayed for and with us. It’s an act of kindness that soothes my soul and sometimes makes me cry. We have needed it; we still need it. Please keep praying with us. It helps us keep our joy.

The Debriefing, Part 2

Read the first part of the story here.

Once I committed to the surgery that day, we were whisked away through the secret passageways of the hospital – the ones you don’t see if you are just visiting there - to the operating room. They allowed me into the holding area while they prepped him and asked a ton of questions that I mostly answered for him because he was still drugged. Then I signed the consent form because he wasn’t in a legal state of mind to do it. They showed me to a waiting area right next to the building where our room was, but I had no idea how to get to it from there. I was completely lost in a maze of corridors until my dad showed me the way back to the room later.

I sat outside on the sidewalk and called our families to tell them what the GI doctor found and that he was in surgery. Half of my family was coming to sit with me while the other half took care of Ella and Luke. I nearly lost my composure while talking to Dave’s brother because I didn’t know how to tell his Nana. She doesn’t hear well over the phone, so I felt like she needed to hear it in person, and I felt so guilty that I had to ask his brother to give her that news on the eve of her birthday. I still hope that was the right decision.

Then I went inside to wait. A crowd of love surrounded me and distracted me for the 2 hours of surgery. We were the only people in the place, and that was nice, too. When they called me back to the consultation room, I went alone, but my dad followed me. That was an act of kindness I really needed but couldn’t ask for; I was so grateful.

As the surgeon talked, I grabbed a piece of paper and the pencil from the middle of the table to take notes and keep myself present. I knew I would need to tell Dave everything, and I didn’t want to miss anything in my shock. He was telling me that they got the tumor from the colon, but he found 3 more in the small intestine. He also removed the swollen lymph nodes from that side of the abdomen. It didn’t look like a typical colon cancer; it might be some sort of lymphoma. He called Dave a “diagnostic dilemma” because his case was difficult from the minute we arrived in the ER. Because of his age and the strangeness in the number and location of the tumors, they decided to send them to the pathology lab at Vanderbilt . It would be six days before we knew anything else. If it is lymphoma, it might be in other parts of his body; chemotherapy is a strong possibility. We won’t know anything until the pathology report comes back, but all three surgeons involved in this case tell us that we want this to be lymphoma because it is so treatable.

I absorbed this news and cried like a baby on my dad’s shoulder for a few minutes before I went back to the rest of my family. There, I gave my first recitation of everything I’d learned – a practice round, for when I would later tell Dave. The thought of telling him that there was more bad news was more than I could handle in the moment. I cried and cried, then got myself together to make all the phone calls again. More practice rounds that I desperately needed. Sometimes just saying the words that scare you over and over again make them not so scary anymore.

They finally called to tell me he was out of recovery and moved to his room. I met him there and settled in for a long night. He was in so much pain, so he spent the night trying to survive it and peppering me with questions that he didn’t remember the answers to until the morning when he told me, “I’m ready for a debriefing now.”

So, now he knows, and like me, he’s practicing saying the words that scare him. We will wait some more, with joyful hearts and lots of hope and even more “Please God.”

The Debriefing, Part 1

In the wee hours of the morning on March 3, Dave came out of his drug induced haze and told me plainly, "I'm ready for a debriefing now." This was to be the real one, the first time he was conscious enough to absorb all that I had been telling him through the night. He had been asking, over and over again, like they said he would, but he didn't remember.

I started from the last thing he did remember. At noon on March 2, we were cuddled in his bed watching a movie on the laptop when they finally came to get him for his colonoscopy. He'd been up since 5, waiting for it. He was not a happy camper.

They drove him in a wheelchair to the other side of the hospital and directed me to a waiting room. I later heard from the doctor that he was bargaining about how to get out the next day for his Nana's 90th birthday party. I waited for 2 hours before the nurse called me back to the consultation room. I waited there another 20 minutes that felt like an eternity. I tried hard not to have a panic attack. There wasn't enough room to pace without getting dizzy, and my heart rate was already so fast I felt light headed. I just tried to control my breathing (that Hypnobabies training is still working). I prayed the prayer of the speechless, over and over, like a chant: "Please God. Please God. Please God." I know He knows the words in my heart even when there are no words in my mouth, and thank Heaven because there has been a lot of "Please God."

I finally heard the doctor come out. I also overheard the nurse make a comment about a closed door and something being bad, then the doctor asked if she would come with him. Then he went to the room next door, to the lady who had been called back after me. The nurse did not go in there with him. She waited in the hall. Then she came to my room. I'm grateful for those few minutes of knowing that what he was going to say to me would knock the breath out of my lungs.

Then he came to my room he told me quick and straight that he'd found a tumor in Dave's colon and it would have to be removed. He showed me a diagram to point out the location and assured me that Dave would not need a colostomy bag - that was one of his big worries. He explained how much colon they would need to take out, that 99% of the time a tumor like this one is cancer, and that he'd already called the surgeon. I took all of that like a woman and then I nearly lost it when he said that Dave didn't know yet.

The doctor took me to Dave's bed. He was still sleeping and I hoped hard that he would stay asleep until the doctor came back to explain it with me. He didn't. He rolled over and looked at me and said, "Is it bad?" I nodded. "Cancer?" Probably. Then it was a whirlwind of explanation about surgery and risks and tumors and timelines, and we had to repeat it all several times because he was still sedated and couldn't remember. The surgeon joined us and, as God would have it, he had a slot open at that exact time because the weather was bad and they had been sending people home. He told us we could wait until next week, but it would mean being readmitted and going through the prep again. Thankfully, Dave looked at me and asked what I thought we should do. I said, "Do it today."

Waiting, Waiting and Writing

This has been a whirlwind week of hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. As I type, we are waiting for Dave to go for a GI test that will hopefully explain the pain and symptoms that brought us to the ER Tuesday night. If this test doesn't tell us anything, I understand that we'll move on to another one tomorrow.

When I brought him to the ER Tuesday, the pain was debilitating. Honestly, he looked like a woman in labor, the way he had to focus and breathe through it. He told me, "If they tell me nothing is wrong and send me home, I'm going to walk back in the door and sign in again." They were able to relieve the pain with IV narcotics and fluids. He had an ultrasound and a CT scan in the ER and was later admitted "to the surgeons" with a suspected small bowel obstruction. For a full day, he had IV fluid and nothing by mouth. The surgeon ordered a follow up x-ray yesteray (Thursday, I think?) and it showed improvement in the obstruction. Basically, the contrast he drank for the CT scan had passed all the way through the intestine but there was still inflammation. At that point, the surgeon stepped back to let the GI doctor take over to try to figure out what caused the obstruction. Surgery is still a possiblity, but hopefully it won't be necessary.

He was able to get some broth and juice yesterday, and he handled it well. He still has some pain, but not enough to take the narcotics. He's anxiously waiting for answers. He's never really been sick, ever, so this is a very new experience for him. It has definitely been an exercise in patience.

As we wait in faith, trying hard to remember the grace that God gave us and let His love show, I can see lots of little ways that He is taking care of us. Monday night, both kids slept through the night. That's only happened once before, and was much needed since I did not sleep again until 5:00 Wednesday morning. Also, the last 3.5 years of sleep deprivation? Obviously training for that hard 24 hour stretch - like a marathon runner, right? The kids have handled all of this disruption in our routine amazingly well. They've been to visit Daddy in the hospital twice and Ella wrote him a note on his white board. I am able to work from the hospital room, so I'm not just completely burning my sick time. On top of that, my boss brought me my laptop so I didn't have to drive to the office to get it. My family is taking care of the house and kids while I just try to keep it together. And most of all, Dave and I have spent tons of time just being together, which we both need. I do have a bit of struggle with Mommy Guilt about being away from the kids so much, but I know that they are well cared for so I can listen to my heart and be here with Dave. Hospitals are lonely places, and I don't want him to be lonely.