seattle

We arrived in Seattle two days ago for a 24 hour visit with the oncologist - the flight was a bit tough as Tad was weak but it went well all in all. At the hotel he began to feel worse. The next morning as I was packing to get us off to his appointment he told me "I think I need to go to the hospital" - words he NEVER speaks lightly.

Three digits later a slew of emergency medical professionals were filling the hotel room, checking this and that, asking him questions, prodding him. Our quiet little life was suddenly being taken over by plastic tubes, needles, probing questions. Even though I knew it would look like that - the abruptness of it, dare I say the violence of it was overwhelming. A tall dark-skinned fireman wrapped his arm around me while I wept.

Tad is in the ICU. More tubes, more cables, more prodding questions. The team here have not minced their words about the risks of him dying. They asked me not to return to SF where I was hoping to get my car and drive back up with a bit more preparation (I only have one set of clothes and am almost out of my own meds). I agreed to stay here but I am reluctant to take on all the doomsday talk since he has bounced back from moments like this so many times before.

Then again as the rapture predictor has once proven to us: who are we to think we know the future?

While he was being tested for every living creature that can invade a body, I was whisked away by Diane, my guardian angel here in Seattle and the mother of a young lady who survived Acute leukemia, to meet with the oncologist. This was actually another feat of boldness because as his coordinator told us, "I can't bill for this since a patient can't be both inpatient and outpatient at the same time."

Diane and the doc made it happen anyway.

In essence they have two more treatment options for Tad. The first one would get him back home after a week long stay in Seattle the second one would include a longer stay here. The first one has fewer side effects but is less likely to get him into remission than the second one.

Whichever option Tad chooses, the first goal is to get him back on his feet and functioning. And once again the doctors have found nothing. No infections, no bacterias, no vital organ problems - just a general fatigue, weakness, dehydration.

When we got to ER yesterday I was again assailed by doctors who were all talking about end-of-life choices and sort of badgering Tad. We once again found ourselves in the midst of a cultural tension between oncologists who are willing to keep treating if the patient is asking for it and hospitalists who find themselves at times keeping those patients alive.

Doc: "If your heart stops do you want us to rescussitate?"
Tad: "Yes - unless I'm brain dead."
Doc: "Well if you're brain dead you won't be able to change your mind."
Tad: "But Greg has medical power of attorney."
Doc: "But given the setting we have before us (His way of talking about Tad's cancer and treatment) you are aware that you have very few options and little chance of survival."
Tad: "Yes"
Doc: "So if your heart stops do you want us to rescussitate?"
Tad: "Yes"

I restrained myself from punching him or telling him to stop badgering. Even in the midst of extreme fatigue and weakness Tad was quite clear, his voice strong and adamant that this is what he wants. As he said to me when he and I had a similar conversation a few weeks ago: "Why would I stop now? I've come this far. It doesn't make sense."

I can already see that we are in the right place if Tad does survive this. These folks just know leukemia by heart and they are very pragmatic, constantly problem-solving, very patient-centered.

I am staying in a sweet hotel and I walk across the gorgeous UW campus to get here. Yesterday during my walk the sun came out and I was suddenly hit in the gut by the beauty of snow-covered Mt Rainer hovering off in the distance.

I'm scared. I am lonely. Clearly this is yet another American city where you're screwed if you don't have a car. I am afraid I won't have enough money to get by but I know that for now my job is to just sit and wait, to see if Tad gets better once again or not.

I come from a culture that was a bit more "Love the one you're with" than it was "Stand by your man". Standing beside Tad through all of this is without a doubt the hardest thing I've ever done -- and I've done a lot of hard things. I simply can't imagine how hard it is for Tad.

Just had a good cry. Tad asked for food and they've agreed to give him some. Definitely a sign of good health.