THREE TO GO

Nine down, three to go.

Kevin got the infusion pump off this morning--you can actually see him relax and feel better once that's gone. He's a little more nauseous today but managing ok.

We had a nice surprise in the mail today from our friends John and Elaina Balser. John is one of Kevin's oldest friends--he pre-dates even me in knowing Kevin. The Balsers attended the Papal Mass in Washington D.C. last week. Today we received two special rosaries, made to commemorate the papal visit, which were blessed by Pope Benedict at the conclusion of the mass.

John and Elaina had emailed us earlier about the incredible experience they had in attending the mass and had let us know they offered prayers for us while they waited for Mass to begin and again during the blessing of the various religious items in the possession of those attending the mass.

John and Elaina remind me of those Mastercard commercials. You know the ones where the voice-over sums up the costs associated with some aspect of life. The commercial for John and Elaina would conclude like this:
Friends like the Balsers.............Priceless.

Same Day, Part Two

I love it when he feels better.

This morning he busted open a knuckle when he caught the bedframe while making the bed. (Don't judge me, cookie, just because my guy makes the bed. If you're keeping track, he also sweeps the floors, takes out the trash and kills spiders. Some people have a pre-nup because of financial concerns, ours was negotiated around housework. Point #1...The last person out of the bed for the day, makes the bed...Point #9 ...Kevin doesn't cook meals that require more than one pan. Bed making and floor sweeping fall somewhere in between.)

With his low platelet count, a scraped knuckle bleeds copiously, warranting a major bandage effort. He headed off to work with his hand bandaged as if there had been a chainsaw mishap not a scrape with the headboard.

Fast forward to this evening when he arrives home from work. We are sitting outside and I notice the bandage on his hand.

"You've bled through your bandage!"
"Hmmm," he says. And he looks at it more closely. He sniffs it.
Sniffs it??
I urge him to let me clean it up and put on a new bandage. Infection is an ongong risk with his lowered blood counts.
He waves off my concerns. I'm getting frustrated. Patients on a FOLFOX regimine are warned about taking care of their hands and feet.
A few minutes pass before he says,out of the blue, "It's chocolate."
"Huh?"
"It's not blood. It's chocolate. Chocolate chip. I might have been a little messy. I don't get to eat cookies all that often these days."

The Vagaries of Chemotherapy

Call it superstition. Or luck. Or planning. But it has generally worked well for Kevin when we maintain a pretty close routine especially during the week of chemotherapy.

Last time we didn't vary from the routine, though, and he had a miserable 10 days or so during and following his treatment. We chalked it up to the cumulative impacts we were warned about and he just sort of steeled himself to be in greater misery each time from here to the end of treatment.

Last night was a pleasant surprise when he felt pretty good, ate well, worked a little, rested a little. And he had a decent night's sleep which is very rare on the nights he has the infusion pump. He showed up from work around lunch time, hungry for a change. Still no cold stuff and he says room temperature lemonade is not all that good! But it was great that he felt well enough to eat--it's usually something he has to force at this point in a treatment week, especially the last time around.

After a short nap, he headed back over to his office for the afternoon. I think I saw him pawing around in the cookie tin before he left.

Who knows what goes on his body that changes the impacts of those drugs from week to week. We accomodate those things we know about, try to avoid what we can, prepare him for what we can't avoid. And then, from there, it just goes however it goes each time.

So we'll see what the rest of the evening, and the week, brings. And, once again, thankfully count our blessings for today!

Number Nine, Up and Running

Chemotherapy day again. Number Nine up and running. 3/4 of the way through.

Kevin had an early appointment today--8 a.m. It was pretty quiet in the clinic for the first hour or more so he got in a needed nap which has helped him through the day. Another couple of hours of napping this afternoon has helped tremendously.

Doctor added Magnesium to his medicines here at home because of low levels in his blood work. His hematocrit, RBC and platelets are low too, apparently part of the game. I'm taking all sharp objects away from him--don't want him bleeding out over a paper cut this week.

Gorgeous day today--upper 70s and sunny. We ate supper out on the patio tonight then stayed outside and Kevin caught up on some work via his laptop.

Kevin went down to fill the feeders--a far cry from that blizzard day a couple of months ago when I caught him trudging up the hill in the snow just hours after chemotherapy. He looks like a dedicated bird watcher out there--the infusion pump draped over one shoulder like a binocular case and his hat in place to shield his eyes from the glare and his balding head from a quick sunburn. He's lost some more weight and looks more frail this week.

All in all Kev says he's feeling pretty good though. Not as blasted as he immediately felt last treatment; a wonderful and unexpected blessing.

But I still see the tell tale signs of those side effects creeping in---a cookie with only two bites out of it--anyone who knows Kev knows he would never willingly neglect a chocolate chip cookie this way--and room temperature water, no ice, sitting in his glass instead of the ice cold milk he believes is the only thing properly matched to a good cookie. The cold sensitivity is already in full swing, his appetite is fading and the perpetual headache of chemotherapy week has set in fast.

It's always such a roller coaster. There are no small health concernss for him right now because you always worry that they are indicative of some BIG something lurking below. We spend 11 days trying to build him back up so the chemotherapy drugs can kick the shit out of him again for these three long days.

So we go on from here and see where this week takes us on this road. He feels pretty good tonight, given the day. Even in the very real moments of side effects and doubts we remain certain of the blessings and bounty of our days.

Tears and Giggles

I can always tell when we have letters from the kids in Lafayette. Kevin comes out of the post office with a big smile on his face.

Haylee writes often with her mommy's help. Today we had letters from Hannah, Andrea and Evan.

It's one of those up/down moments.

We love to hear from them and the letters are always filled with pictures and funny little things they say.

They're also sometimes filled with pleas for us to come home to Indiana. Today's letters were that variety.

I see Kevin's eyes fill with tears when Hannah's letter starts with "Nothing will be the same without you" and Evan says "I don't want you to stay in Ohio forever."

I remind him that farther into the letters the kids tell us they are having fun and making new friends in school and daycare.

That makes him a little more tearful. They are moving on without us, just like they're supposed to do, but it's still hard not to see it on a daily basis.

Hannah ends her letters with a joke. She thinks she's terribly funny and I can picture her giggling as she penned her letter.

What side of the chicken has the most feathers?

The OUTside!

Kevin laughed out loud through his tears.

Kevin finally started feeling better this weekend. Eating a little more.

And already dreading having to return on Tuesday for another round.

This is when I really miss being close to friends.

The emails with reminders of continuing prayers are great. We really appreciate them. But I think Kevin could do with some hugs and face to face pep talks at this point.

I thought about driving over to Lafayette for the weekend but he's just too worn out for the trip.

Four more times. He's done eight now. Just four more.

The Loophole of a Cure

Friends and family often ask about Kevin's cancer being in "remission" after treatment.

It's not a word we hear from his doctors.

His doctors talk about when we can consider him cured.

I want him to not have cancer. No signs. No symptoms.

Ever again.

Do I want to know his cancer is cured?

Maybe. Not so much.

There's a whole negative loophole here.

After a certain amount of cancer free time (5.6 years, in the current precision measurement), he is considered cured. But it could still come back. Not likely. But possible.

I figure there's only one way to know he's cured of cancer. And that's when he doesn't obviously have cancer and he dies of something else.

So do I want to know he's cured of cancer?

Not as much as I want him to not have cancer.