eight more days

Tad has had one of the least painful rounds of inpatient chemo since his diagnosis 18 months ago.

Only in the last 48 hours has he begun to develop real GI complications and severe bone pain. During a couple previous hospitalizations he was in ICU well before this stage.

He has been doing activities on the computer, keeping up with friends, taking care of administrative tasks and still maintaining civilian clothes. The last couple days were the first in which he could not get out of bed, gear up with his space-age face-mask and walk to the cafeteria or adjacent atrium.

Internally the oncologists have done a bit of research and determined, after boring a hole in his hip bone, that they have "destroyed all the leukemia" - the initial goal.

This is good news.

But it is dampered by the fact that it may not persist once his immune system rebuilds itself.

I was frankly quite wary when he shared this with me and only felt a bit relieved a few days later when I had had the opportunity to speak with an oncologist myself.

This very warm woman explained to me that this was indeed a good thing and that as always we have to keep playing the waiting game to see what will happen long term.

Some of the options include having him do a second round of this chemo, having him receive a bone marrow transplant if the leukemia stays at bay or having him go home and call it quits if there is no real lasting remission.

The same day the team shared the good news with Tad they also said they'd been in touch with a reputed hospital in LA where a patient has nearly the same medical complications he has and where they may be willing to do a stem cell transplant. This would mean NOT moving to Seattle for six months, NOT having to leave his house in Santa Cruz and establish fiscal residency in WA for insurance reasons. The hospital staff have since called us twice asking for more medical information. We are still awaiting a final yes or no as to whether they can offer us this service.

In the meantime we have changed attending oncologists and the whole feel of the oncology team is different. This one is led by a German woman who smiles, makes eye contact and introduces herself by her first name. On her first day she introduced all the team by their first name - which feels more natural to me anyway since most of them are half my age. She asks questions and asks permission to do the next thing ("May I listen to your breathing?" "Do you mind if I lift up your shirt?").

The feeling in the room is diametrically opposed to her predecessor who was here when we first walked in. We feel heard and seen by these folks; we feel like we have allies.

Contrary to the previous guy who asked "Have you tried City of Hope in LA?" (the hokey name for the otherwise excellent cancer center), this team contacted City of Hope and were able to deliver good news.

My own form of pain goes in and out. As I sit in an empty house in a high-end suburb I become aware that my career is on hold, that I haven't had a vacation in a very long time, that I have no real community down here and feel disconnected. Rather than stopping to remember all of the people around the world holding me in my heart I flail, I look for things to do, I try to find an answer outside of myself.

Sitting down and remembering love is often the most potent thing I can do for myself. Yet I keep grasping for answers outside of me. The former is just not very sexy, it's too subtle, too simple. It lacks drama. It's a gentle glass of good wine compared to the strong shot of whiskey I get from calling friends to hear me bitch and moan, or spending three hours on Facebook til something attracts my eye and distracts my brain.

The sweet oncologist tells us Tad has about 8 more days in hospital. My busy mind wants to write the next sentence; tell the next part of the story but we don't know what that is. So for now I'll leave it at that: Tad will probably go home in about eight days.