Author: usewhatexists

Freddy: Darling Elizabeth: Taffeta, darling. Freddy: Taffeta, sweetheart. Elizabeth: No, the dress is taffeta, it wrinkles so easily. Freddy: Oh. ~ Young Frankenstein 

Rich and I have always loved that movie and that scene in particular. Whenever one of us is sick and we want to avoid passing on our germs, we use those phrases. And like the characters in the movie, touch elbows as the last resort of contact. Elbows it is now as we continue along.

Settling into our cozy room, that is the one glaring difference in the routines to date. Before we even get into the room, there are two doors to go through, each with its own hand sanitizer station.

Once in the little hallway of the stem cell unit, a thirty second hand wash is next. Then the gown and gloves go on. For now, no need for masks. But hugging and kissing is verboten. Where, during in-patient chemo, Rich and I would both squeeze onto his bed to watch a movie in the evenings, now his space is a sacred germ-free zone. Guests are not allowed to perch.

When you leave his room, gown and gloves come off and another 30 second hand wash is required. Sanitize again at each door. No transmittal of cooties from one hall to the next.

Life in a medical gown and rubber gloves makes for an interesting sleeping experience. Changing gloves throughout the day helps keep hands from getting prunelike.

Fresh flowers or live plants are not allowed, not only in our little room or little hallway, but on the 7th floor of the Lymphoma/Leukemia division as well. Food is limited to what is on the menu and thankfully it’s a very impressive menu! Sealed packaged foods, homemade food, cooked under the proper conditions, can be brought in as long as it has been cooked and eaten within twenty-four hours.

We are encouraged to waste food and disposable cups, plates, utensils with abandon. While it goes against the grain, the logic of it can’t be denied. As we continue to accept beneficial poisons, we also have to accept that they will remove Rich’s immune system and those proverbial starving kids in China won’t benefit from any other course of action in our efforts to keep any unwanted bacteria from forming. It’s important to eat what you can and try a little of everything so as to be sure to have food that will stay down and that you get enough calories. Leftovers are not allowed. A new drinking cup should be used every few hours to keep bacteria at bay.

The first leg of our isolated journey is behind us… magic potion #1 is complete and we’re cleared for potion #2. Three days of this and then we begin the last… magic potion #3.

Despite the restrictions, there is a nice life to this unit. There’s just the right mix of quiet and liveliness to allow for rest and stimulation in balance. The staff are all accommodating and work very hard to keep Rich happy and healthy. And it’s all working. There’s a constant tweaking of the meds to get the right balance to minimize side effects. There’s a team of stem cell nurses and doctors who stop in and discuss options and plans. It gives us comfort. We’re all partners on this track.

But for all the togetherness, we miss the physical connection of even a simple hug. So our elbows touch… Taffeta Darling!

(Hug-Free Visitors welcome… North Shore University Hospital Monti 7 Stem Cell Transplant Unit Room M715)

“It’s my experience that most folk who ride trains could care less where they’re going. For them it’s the journey itself and the people they meet along the way. You see, at every stop this train makes, a little bit of America, a little bit of your country, gets on and says hello.” ― David Baldacci, The Christmas Train

Since we first traveled by Amtrak on our honeymoon, we’ve been enamored with train travel. Over the years, we’ve taken a number of family trips, culminating in our month-long travels via Amtrak in one giant loop from New York to Arizona to LA to San Francisco to Seattle to Chicago to New York. We visited a number of our beloved National Parks and revisited cities we’ve enjoyed before as well as going to new places and seeing new amazing sights. From deserts to rainforests, coast to coast, north to south. And each leg of the trip was by train.

Over the years, as we’ve dined on the train we’ve seen wild mustangs run beside us. Lying in our sleeper cabin, we’ve peeked out at midnight as we cross the Rockies with the moon lighting the snow covered trees. The Rio Grande, Sangre de Christo Mountains, Glacier NP, waterfalls of the Cascades, farmland of the plains… so many memories.

There’s a magic, too, to the names of the routes… Sunset Limited, Coast Starlight, Lake Shore Limited, Empire Builder, Southwest Chief. They lure you with the promise of magical adventures that don’t disappoint.

We had no idea that, other than our photos that we bring with us in our bag of tricks, these experiences would bring us comfort and familiarity.

We prepped for Rich’s admittance on Monday morning. We were a little apprehensive as we weren’t sure exactly if we were good to go. Somewhere along the line, we forgot, for the first time, one of our appointments. We did a very good job, apparently, of ignoring cancer as we enjoyed our weekend with family. We had no idea if this would affect today’s admission to NSH for the month of little rooms in the little hall since it was the weekend and there was no recourse at that point anyway. Ultimately we learn that missing one of the three injections is not a huge problem.

So, with Rich’s cousins once more taking us to the hospital…giving him a send-off complete with a lei to match his Hawaiian shirts… we drive off with Nick ringing the farewell bell that is our family tradition when someone is going off on a trip or returning to THEIR home far from our home. It was only this morning we rang the bell sending Richard on his way as he drove off, having spent the weekend with us.

And then the day of waiting begins….

We’re in a temporary room. We’re waiting for a patient on the transplant unit to be discharged and the room sanitized.

All day, every few minutes, a cart goes by our door.

Earlier today, we hoped it was lunch.

Invariably it was someone coming to take vitals, to introduce themselves, to give us their card, to drop off yet another bottle of lotion/mouthwash/drinking cups.

Finally lunch at two followed shortly by dinner …at four.

Three o’clock scheduled for triple-lumen catheterization… so they took Rich to surgery at 5pm. Shortly after, the nurses come by and are disappointed that their patient is not in the room. I fear they will take MY vitals. VITALS MUST BE TAKEN!

An hour and a half later and our Borg now has one more installation complete. The assimilation continues. A nurse follows in immediately to take the vitals. Always the vitals.

They now begin the pre-chemo. This means gowns and gloves in our temporary room for all but the patient. As I type with gloves, I realize that it’s harder than I thought… especially since I’ve chosen a size too small. Note to self.

They take bloods to once more cross match and type in case of any transfusion needs. You can’t receive blood products without having that done within 48 hours. Monday/Wednesday/Friday are the bloodwork days. They begin the pre-chemo infusions of saline, Zofran, Ativan, Decadron… that’s the one that brings back our barking seal. Thorazine STAT!

They prepare him to move to our prescribed little room in the little hall. But the preparation takes longer than we thought as the cleaning is very thorough… it’s not until 9pm that we begin our move. Gowns and gloves come off, all our stuff is moved to our little room in the little hall. Gowns and gloves back on. A baseline EKG is done so that any heart effects of the beneficial poisons can be established. Vitals, again vitals, are taken and recorded.

Our room is remarkably like a cabin on Amtrak… very self-contained with low ceilings and a curtain for a door. The walls are perforated with the air exchange coming through the perforations. It creates a constant white noise not dissimilar to the air systems on the train. We begin to feel like this journey is a familiar one. That feeling is even stronger when our bag of tricks that is always with us is unpacked and our travel pictures decorate our room like windows to the American landscape …the train travel illusion even more complete.

The room is modest in size. There is no closet, but instead a bank of shelving on either side of the large bed. Under one shelf is a bar fridge. On one side of the bed is the recliner where overnight guests sleep or the patient relaxes during the day. On the other an armchair and another small guest chair. The IV stand is a double with two full poles of hooks. The rolling bed table, the every-present vital machine and a small night table for clothing take up much of the floor space. There is a small corner of the room with a vanity and sink and a curved curtain hanging from the ceiling. Hidden within the vanity cabinetry is the toilet. This economy and efficiency of space continues to remind us of our Amtrak travels. We pray these memories will support and entertain us as our stem cell ride continues.

Another round of vitals taken. The chemo bags are hung, along with Rich’s lei, on the IV poles. The nurses leave. It’s now close to midnight. Rich has fallen asleep. The only thing missing is the rocking of the train.

Our journey has once more begun on a new track. But a new track that feels like home.

“God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.” ― Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

We seem to be surrounded by Good Omens lately. Every time we hear that phrase “good omens” we can’t help but think of the nutty and wonderful book by that name. Although Sister Mary Loquacious of the Chattering Order misplaces the Antichrist and the Apocalypse is due this Saturday, it all works out in the end. And if all those mishaps, bungling and devious nonsense still bring the world to a happy ending, then good omens indeed. It certainly seems to fit!

As quickly as the harvest began, it was over… a few hours that first afternoon when we were hustled from Monter to North Shore and then a few hours more the following morning. This bumper crop heralded the start of next beginning. We were to wait for a call giving us the next part of the process. It’s like a scavenger hunt where the clues come one by one.

First clue… during the coming week, Rich will have a series of shots over three days that will help eliminate the expected mouth sores. Kepivance is supposed to coat the mucosa so that the high level chemo that Rich will receive his first week in the hospital will have less chance to affect the mouth, tongue and digestive tract with ulcerations. He can expect it to feel like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in days and his taste buds will have altered tastes. He’ll have another three shots after chemo is finished. But like all effects, this is expected to leave no residual issues. It’s always fascinating to look at the development of the meds that are being used. This particular one is a combination of human and E. coli DNA. So many beneficial poisons used to counteract the effects of the beneficial poisons!

These shots are the last bit of medical preparation before the entrance to the little hall of little rooms. On August 18, 1983 our daughter Emily came into this world and it’s been a party ever since. We find it auspicious that this year on the same day, Rich will be admitted to North Shore for the next stage of our journey. August 18, 2014 is the day of days. Such good omens! Excellent clue!

Our final push to get ready has been all but completed. All our indoor plants have been relegated to the upstairs since we’re staying on the main floor of the house for the duration. We decided to do the move now so that we can get used to it and the house won’t feel off when we return.

The little bedroom now has beds for two, so the recliner is in the living room and a TV is set up on the mantle. This gives Rich easy options to other places to relax in the house without having to maneuver any steps at all.

Some smaller items here and there have been moved up or downstairs or into cabinets or drawers to make it easier to keep things clean. We’ve done as much as we could to maintain the same feel in our home… we’ve just made some small adjustments that will serve us well. As time goes on, his world will expand but for now, we’ve got comfort and convenience on the main floor all set.

Next we needed to take a look at what to pack. At orientation they recommended wearing button down shirts or hospital gowns so that you can easily change clothes without worrying about the ever-present IV lines. To date, Henley shirts have been our go-to but they won’t do for this part of the game. There was little doubt in our minds how we were gonna go with this… Hawaiian shirts. Definitely. Each day will be a celebration in an array of colors and patterns, all in silky fabrics to be easy to wear and sleep in. No hospital gowns or stuffy oxfords for us! What fun to flex our internet muscles and shop Ebay for some great vintage duds to deck out our One of Nine and add to our current collection.

Our chemo bag o’ tricks is filled with the necessary diversions and ever at the ready… no need to expand on that.

Our coming week will be filled with more of the future forbiddens… taking in a movie, visiting with groups of family and friends, restaurants, sushi. Windows open with cool night breezes. Whatever we can as we finish up our final bits and pieces to prepare.

And lastly, we’ll make sure we leave no tapes in our car. We’ve already a good library of Queen albums.

Everything happens for a reason. People say that all the time and usually it’s the last thing you wanna hear when that black cloud is following you around. Really? That’s supposed to make me feel better?

But then that Serendipity rears her pink sea serpent head and you have to wonder.

The fender bender of this past weekend did not in any way feel like a silver lining. The train ride to work on Monday was torture and it was impossible to stay at work. I decided I had to work from home on Tuesday to avoid the jostling that was making my head, neck and back worse. I couldn’t even think.

Tuesday also happened to be another morning of transfusions… red cells and platelets… for Rich. Although I hadn’t planned on going, now that I was working remotely for the day, I figured why not. We prepped our bag of tricks with food, games and our photos. Nick joined us as well. I worked from my laptop while the guys played backgammon and noshed from our plate of goodies.

As once more the red cells were uneventfully being infused, the stem cell nurse showed up chair-side. We weren’t going to get the platelets. Cancelled. Instead we were going from the Monter Center to North Shore Hospital. The number of stem cells on his latest blood work was wonderfully high and it was time to start the harvesting!

What serendipity that I was not in the office but able to be a part of this process! We had been told that the room where the apheresis takes place is not big enough for any visitors during the harvest. And they were right. But again, serendipity… it was afternoon by the time we got there and with only one other patient in the room, there was a bit of space for me to stay by Rich’s side. And the decision was made to also utilize his port, which was left accessed by the transfusion team, and transfuse the platelets while the harvesting was taking place. Usually your first day of harvesting is a full day that begins in the morning. But the body knows no timetable and when the time is right, you go.

Anyone who has donated platelets would be familiar with the process if not the machinery itself. The patient lies in what seems to be a cross between a wide recliner and a bed. There are familiar bits and pieces… IV pumps, blood pressure cuffs… things you’d find in most hospital rooms. Then there is the apheresis machine itself. A big bulky thing with tubing following a prescribed path, paths that are painted on like a New York City subway map. Between are rotating knobs, small collection tubes with little valves seem to regulate the speed of things. Deep within the bowel of this massive block of equipment is a centrifuge that spins the blood to separate out the different components so the stem cells can be collected and the remaining blood products can be returned from whence they came. The machine jiggles like a slightly off balance washing machine on the spin cycle. We can’t resist the temptation to continually sing that song from the Looney Tunes that was always played when there was a factory or some kind of mechanized action going on. Powerhouse by Raymond Scott. This thing looks pretty Rube Goldberg. It fits.

So of course, you consent to be hooked up to this contraption that looks like a 6th grade science project…. Why not?

The process requires an atrial line from one arm to draw the blood out and a venial line to return it back. The hand on the arm with the atrial line has to remain still except for regularly squeezing a stress ball to keep the blood pumping at the proper rate. Saline is also being infused to keep the body fluid ratio stable. An anticoagulant is used to keep the blood from clotting but this can cause some calcium imbalance. If a tingling on the lips is felt, then one more additive is given in the IV which can take some adjustment to find the right amount of calcium.

When the blood is returned from its trip around Manhattan, it’s no longer at body temperature. Rich began to feel chilled, so the nurses brought a heated blanket unlike any we had seen before. It consists of what was basically a huge celled bubble wrap that had microscopic holes in it. This was attached to a hose that looks remarkably like the one attached to our dryer vent at home. The hose pumped in heated air that filled the chambers, and released small and gentle streams of warm air.

So we’ve got a Rube Goldberg contraption with spinning knobs on a subway map, a blanket of glorified bubble wrap attached to a hair dryer at the end of a dryer vent and a Looney Tunes soundtrack. After spending the last few months gratefully chugging radioactive glogg and letting everyone pump beneficial poisons through veins, how can this possibly seem ridiculous?

The word harvest to define the collection of stem cells always seemed odd. But Henry David Thoreau said “The true harvest of my life is intangible – a little star dust caught, a portion of the rainbow I have clutched.” Stardust and the rainbows…. Now that just sounds like a happily ever after… and that we can live with!

The transplant unit on the Lymphoma/Leukemia floor on 7 Monti at North Shore Hospital is smaller than one would expect. We’ve spent time on 7 Monti, but never before had admittance to the magical land of transplant rooms. Behind the forbidden door, is a short hallway, not more than thirty feet long. There are four rooms on the hallway, one per patient, each with a curtain where the door would usually be. This is because of the air exchange that helps keep germs from finding their way into the rooms. These rooms are small but private. There’s a bed, night table, recliner and small fridge…some open shelving and a few drawers for personal items.

The orientation of what to expect had little new information but it’s always good to hear the routine again as repetition breeds familiarity.

We head from the hospital to the Monter Cancer Center for blood work, wait for results, and conference with the stem cell team. Rich had been feeling good, though very tired. Suddenly his appetite is non-existent. He’s looking Edward Cullen/Twilight pale. The remedy is vampire-worthy… some blood. We’re given an appointment for a transfusion of red blood cells on Saturday morning. Back to the hematology lab once more before we go home to be cross matched and typed. This needs to be done no more than 48 hours prior to any transfusions; each time.

The transfusion itself is uneventful. We’re warned about possible side effects and reactions but none come to pass. As the second unit of blood is being infused, Rich’s color begins to change from Lestat to human once more. By the end of the day, his voice is stronger than it’s been in a long time. This gift from an anonymous donor has amazing effects. We know there are more transfusions to come as we continue on our journey. We can meet them with full expectations of renewed energy. We give thanks to those who give this gift.

We had hoped to continue to use this time of near-normalcy to get in some last licks that will be verboten in a few weeks when we enter that little hall of little rooms. But a van imprinting his license number into our rear bumper when we were stopped at a light on our way to Monter was going to detour us to the ER after the transfusion. And the Monter visit itself was longer than expected. We were told two hours… apparently that’s per unit. We were unprepared with lunch or even a morning nosh. And the café-of-last-resort in the center was closed. Dammit. Local eateries don’t deliver to the cancer center. This is not our usual experience here. What happened to all our plans? God is laughing.

We finally luck out and a place in Great Neck will deliver some wraps and salads to us.

Newly transfused, no longer hungry, six hours later we head to the ER and are given some pain and happy meds to relax the muscles that are in an iron grip at this point. We head home.

The week ahead holds more blood work, possible platelets and moving ever closer to the stem cell harvest. Within a week we can expect to begin that process. As Seneca, the first century Roman philosopher said, “From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.” When we pass through those doors for a thirty one day journey like no other, there is no turning back, we can only go onward. We’re almost there!

During this non-patient time, there are moments where important decisions need to be made. Sometimes the number of decisions to be made are overwhelming. We’re asking all our friends and family to help us with one that has us stumped.

At this point, Rich’s goatee is gone and for the second time in thirty years, he’s clean shaven (tho’ shaving is not necessarily a daily task).

Please show your support…. go to the photo gallery on this site. There you will find a three panel picture. Feel free to name the three styles… developed and photoshopped by our son Richard… and vote for your choice of facial hair.

While we can’t necessarily convince Rich to actually sport any of these styles, we can certainly have fun with it.

So, ready, set…. Comment and VOTE!

There is a different kind of rhythm to the hospital at night. There’s a quiet that you expect to accompany the small hours, but it only serves to accentuate the sounds that do exist. The orderlies are taking care of the detritus that accumulates during the course of the afternoon. A patient cries out. The nurses whisper words of comfort. The intravenous pumps beep their alarms. In each room, the soft sounds of a TV.

Periodically the door opens, the light sneaks in and vital signs are taken once more, waking the patient, waking the caregiver. We negotiate the timing of the meds to consolidate as much as possible, eliminating staggered administrations and minimize the sleep interruptions. Little by little, the floor quiets down again, the sounds of sleep take over once more, broken only now and again by the needs of those living with disease. We feel grateful for the relative ease of our journey as we see the struggles of our neighbors as we stroll the hallways.

It’s been a long day. This cycle of RICE has been for the most part uneventful. There was an exhaustion this weekend… brought on by too much activity and the mix of beneficial poisons. Those zombies had nothing on our patient. Thankfully that has passed. The counts were good and yesterday we were able to complete the first day of the cycle as an outpatient. Today we’re back at North Shore for the overnight chemo marathon.

With this cycle again come the hiccups… with a vengeance they are back. This is a combination of the Decadron administered and a delay in dispensing the Thorazine, which, in itself, is just a product of today’s hospital admission process and unavoidable bad timing.

Ah, but we can’t let this opportunity pass.

We amuse ourselves with recording the hiccups and playing them back. As we hit replay, Rich’s hiccups coincide with the recorded ones like an echo and this in turn makes us giggle all the more. Giggling, it seems, brings on more hiccups. We’re in terrible danger here… there’s the potential for total chaos brought on by hiccups, of all things.

While it’s sad that our roommate has pain, we’re thankful that he’s on methadone to alleviate it. He therefore pays no attention to our nonsense. He’s apparently looking for the green horse. He has his own concerns.

When the spasms get to be annoying, we try the Rooibos tea and it settles the hiccups nicely. The combo of the medication and the tea seems to be an effective tool. Our seal may not be barking so often this cycle if this holds true.

It could be, however, as a result of our silliness we just may have a new ringtone recorded for our phones.

“Unless you leave room for Serendipity…. How can the Divine enter?” ~ Joseph Campbell

Our daughter Emily had a series of books growing up called “Serendipity.” I’m sure the reason she wanted them in the first place was because the sea serpent on the cover was pink. As we enter our unknown territory where there be dragons, I remember the sea serpent Serendipity who was the guardian of the oceans in these books. Serendipity is also one of my favorite words which is probably what caught my eye in my early bookstore days. It was coined by Horace Walpole… when writing to a friend in 1754, Walpole explained an unexpected discovery he had just made by reference to a Persian fairy tale, “The Three Princes of Serendip”. These princes, he explained, were “always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of…now do you understand Serendipity?” It’s defined as a “fortunate happenstance.” Apparently in our uncharted waters, this pink sea serpent of fortunate happenstances was at work today.

The morning began with a lot of scheduling conflicts and uncertainty. Our transportation needs for the afternoon and the coming days were in flux… everyone seemed to be out of town or otherwise busy. Rich’s blood counts were up in the air… we didn’t know if chemo would move forward or not today. We had the inspector coming to check the newly installed upgraded electrical panel by 10am. Nick had to get back home…would we get the blood work results in time if we had chemo? He and Raven can’t leave til we know. And Monday we have the contractor coming in to replace the old windows in our current bedroom with new vinyl ones which will be easier to sterilize post-transplant… we don’t want to have to reschedule infusions for Monday WE HAVE PLANS! OY!

Raven, Nick, Rich and I waited at the Monter Center for Rich’s blood counts to come back. When they were done at the beginning of the week, they had really bottomed out. My phone rang first… the oncology nurse gave me the news that we had to reschedule for Monday. Chemo today, tomorrow and Saturday was canceled. My mind started racing but as I was talking, Rich’s phone rang… it was the window contractor… he wanted to do the install tomorrow… they had a conflict come up with Monday!

So off we went to make chemo appointments for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. The infusion nurse caught up with us at the reception desk… He wanted us to know…Rich’s counts were all good but the platelets. No need for a transfusion and they would recover by Monday. Excellent!

Just as Raven drove away from dropping us off at home, the electrical inspector drove up… System checked and approved and one more concern gone.

Long Island Railroad going on strike? I’ll be working remotely during the chemo sessions at Monter and at NSH next week. And with luck, transportation for everything will work itself out.

And best of all, we now have a weekend ahead of us with nothing to do but to enjoy the time together and plan for the future. An amazing series of fortunate happenstances indeed. Divine, c’mon in, we’ve got room.

“The universe is big. It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles.” ~Dr Who

And our miracles continue… Rich had his blood work done again today and the counts are on the rise. The oncology team is pleased with his progress.No platelets need to be transfused! There is still needed improvement before chemo can start again, but we’re headed in the right direction.

The first possible day for our next cycle of RICE is on Thursday… a full 14 days minimum from the start of the last cycle. We’ll go in on Thursday, have blood work done and keep our fingers crossed that the counts are up to where they need to be and we start on the second and last cycle of RICE. Nothing is certain. Day two is yet another game of waiting… there is no set time appointment… you’re basically on call for a bed to become available… because day two is an overnight stay to day three. You hope for an early call because once you get your bed, you’ve got to get to the hospital and get admitted, you then wait. Wait for someone to access your port, wait for the meds to be ordered and approved. Wait for the infusion to start.

‘Cuz that’s when the REAL waiting starts. The second day of RICE is when you have a full 24 hour infusion. The earlier those meds start, the earlier you can go home on day three. That’s because after that full day/nite marathon, you’re ready for your last infusion before you get your discharge papers and go home.

But it is so worth the wait when you realize this is it. This is the very last cycle of chemo before we begin the stem cell process. A milestone we’re happy to put behind us on this journey since it gets us closer to our goal!

In prep for our goal, today Rich climbed into his own version of a Tardis, but instead of a time/space shift, he had a pulmonary function test. After an hour of what ended up being a full spectrum of Lamaze breathing, there didn’t seem to be any change in the Time And Relative Dimension In Space… he was let out… back to where he started and we were sent home. Last stem cell pre-test completed!

In all honesty, we would have preferred another test, another consult, hey… give us a tour! SOMETHING! Because at home we’ve had little to no power for four days. And in this brutal hazy/hot/humid coming-up-from-the-south jetstream, the house has been a soupy place to be. We were lucky to have pockets of electricity so we could run a tiny window air- conditioner and a few fans in the porch. Our fridge has been plugged into a socket in the living room and wifi snaked across the room to another outlet. But the rest of the house has been pretty much a no-man’s land of stifling heat. And today the electrician was working to get us back up and running… but the kicker is, even our little bit of power was cut off while the new panel and circuits were put in. So no wifi, no airconditioners… no fans. <sigh> Hello soup, c’mon in. And then, nine hours later, he flicked the switches and… Blessed cool air and fans… air…moving air!!! Heaven!

So, as we settle in for the night to sleep on the porch with the fans once more moving the cool air, we listen to the rain and watch the lightning and count the blessings of family and friends who are with us on this journey and give us continued strength. Because as Dr Who once said, “There’s a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive… wormhole refractors… You know the thing you need most of all? You need a hand to hold.” And we’ve got a whole bunch of hands. Thank you all.

As we bid adieu to the cancer cells, the time of being a non-patient between cycles grows shorter and shorter. We’re told that all that non-wrestling, non-boxing, non-football playing has paid off and Rich’s counts, thanks to some now-expert dart playing with that Neulasta needle, are in good form. Another round of blood-work this coming Monday will determine a few things: If there’s a need for any platelets, if Rich will have his pulmonary function test… the last of the pre-tests… and more importantly this round will determine if we’re starting our last cycle of RICE this week. We’re getting closer to that Mille Bornes!

We’re pleased that the side effects of this protocol have been mild compared to what we expected. The barking seal has subsided… every now and again he sends out his call… but overall, the bulk of the hiccups have calmed back down.

A nice burst of energy has come back as Rich’s cell count begins to rise from the sudden drop during the week. At one point, the exhaustion hung in the air like a fog. When that happens, you think to yourself, “Is this how it’s going to be til this is done?” You try not to follow that line of thought but at times it just sneaks in. Thankfully, we find that the exhaustion, like our voluble seal, is a temporary thing.

And finally, we’re so grateful for the absence of stomach pain. As Rich sloughed off those cancer cells, his ulceration from the mass began to heal. The wizards of oncology have decided that while he’ll be an inpatient for the RICE infusions, they’ll use that opportunity to take another endoscopic look at the inside of his stomach to confirm the healing that we know has taken place. Back on the menu, with moderation, are the pickles and brines and acidic flavors that Rich loves so much. We’re taking this opportunity to sample the foods that will be forbidden for a period of time after the transplant due to bacteria risks. Sushi with Mom and sons Rich and Nick yesterday was a welcome change from the limited diet of the last few months. So we say to cancer what the dolphins did when they departed Planet Earth just before it was demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass, … so long, and thanks for all the fish!