Diane and I met with the Stem Cell Transplant specialist. She explained the theory of and steps for the transplant. Seeing it as my best and only real option, I agreed to have it done. It’s not a cure, but it’s supposed to buy time.
Pre-testing will begin in the last week of May; I should be in the hospital somewhere around the middle of June, and released around the middle of July. There is a period of recovery at home ranging from one to six months, but at least I will be at home.
After chemotherapy, I was told to continue taking the daily thalidomide pills. I can stop those now and hope to see some side effects go away. Thank you all for your prayers and support.
Our first son, Brandon was born thirty five years ago today; one third of the best part of my life.
I’m at the end of Chemotherapy series number four, that’s twelve weeks of treatments. The results of today’s bone marrow biopsy will be key in deciding the next step: more chemo, or more likely, a stem cell transplant.
When I had my first subcutaneous infusion there in the Chemo Lounge, the nurse finished by putting a small round band aid on the shot site. It was just an unassuming little band aid, but it stuck like superglue.
If all medical fields had advanced as well as the field of band aid sticking, everyone would be living longer and healthier lives. I never thought of my stomach as hairy, but when I finally got a grip on the edge of that circle of protection and pried it off my skin, it was covered with hair. It looked as if it had been pulled off our cat, Rocky.
Considering I was going to have to do that about 15 more times, shaving my stomach seemed a good idea. It turned out to be a waste of time, I just stopped using the band aids.
I have two appointments next week, one for the biopsy test results, and one with a stem cell transplant specialist. When I first heard that a transplant involves up to a month in the hospital, I thought, “No Way.” But when I considered the alternative (possibly being dead), I thought I could probably stand on my head for a month in the hospital.
Summer is approaching, and my summer calendar is about to get marked up. It’s exciting to see what the next month will bring. Thank you for your prayers for Diane and me. Our lives have been full of blessings. We get joy from your words and deeds, acting as God’s hands. We are encouraged as you remind us how all powerful Jesus is; awesome and yet accessible to each of us. We take comfort in God’s Peace, what ever happens.
Our son, Robin and wife, Aubrie are giving us some exciting news with these little baby shoes
I used to breeze through my chemo treatments feeling that I was getting off easy. Slowly, very subtly, but without question I am increasingly weaker, tired, and easily out of breath.
I had completely forgotten about the, “brink of death” part of chemotherapy. I’ve seen it in the past, where chemo seemed to bring a patient to that point, to then be rescued and hopefully cured. I imagine this chemo journey I’m on could end at that brink.
WARNING: SARCASM
At work, I told my boss about my realization. I told him that if I am on the road to the brink, I suspect I will need to modify my work schedule, and if I actually reach the brink of death, I may only be able to work half days.
I’m about half way through series three, about eight weeks on chemo. It is beginning to wear; I’ve left work early a couple times, just very tired. I should be modifying performance curves for segments of pavement, but it’s becoming difficult to concentrate.
The items on my short list of symptoms so far have politely taken turns, one at a time temporarily taking position at the top of the list. The doctors say I look good and my blood looks good, so we continue.
