the bottom of the bell curve

So medically this is the lowest point of the chemotherapy process.

This is the moment when all of Tad's immune system has been whacked out and he is vulnerable to just about anything.

It's true he is on three different intravenous antibiotics and an anti-fungal to help keep icky things at bay.

Ironically our emotions seem to be on the opposite end of the spectrum. The toughest moments were in the beginning when we first got the news, were being told to prepare for this or that ugly scenario and really felt powerless over the entire process.

When your immune system is being eaten by fast-dividing cancerous cells nobody stops to ask you if you want a man or woman doctor, if you want this hospital or that, if you want to talk about the different chemotherapy contents and the havoc they will wreak on your body. They just get you to the closest bed and the closest IV stand.

Even though Tad has been going through painful bouts of severe diarrhea and more fevers (without the shakes this time) we both feel more calm.

I'm not allowing myself to write the word 'optimistic' - but there is an element of hope.

Yesterday we spent some gentle time together just talking and cuddling. He finally let me take out the buzz-shaver and cut his hair --back to the military 'do he once had in the Navy-- in anticipation of the promised hair loss. For some reason I find inexplicable pleasure in doing this so I was delighted. While he had his back turned I bent down and slipped a swath of the curly brown hair into a rubber glove hid away in my pocket.

One of the nurses who's felt like a true ally from the beginning and has always kept an appropriate professional distance came in for the hundredth time and this time said almost in a whisper, "You two have what I have always dreamed of having in my life but could never find."

It was an uncomfortable path to feeling good about the deep love that binds us and is visible to others. This feeling is not unlike the one I have been experiencing each time I go to see the neighbor in the next room: an older gentleman, recently moved to the Bay Area, who was diagnosed with the same unusual form of leukemia. He is actually two days behind Tad in his treatment but I can tell from my visits that the whole process is taking much more of a toll on him. He is not as young, not as resilient perhaps. I walk away from his room both really sad to see how huge his struggle is yet optimistic because he shows me that things could be much worse for Tad.

(Now that I think about it - I don't remember ever having had this feeling of seeing someone's suffering as a conscious message about how good things are in my own life. I'm aware that many people do. I imagine unconsciously the fact that I'm usually healthier permeates the relationships I may have with folks who struggle.)

Yesterday I was broken-hearted to discover that our neighbor was actually moved to another room because he fell for the second time. It seems the chemo has caused dizziness and instability in him.

The next few days may actually take us back to the sorrow and tears. The doctor will be both delivering the news of the first bone marrow biopsy which happened two weeks ago yesterday AND share with us the initial results of the chemo from another biopsy he hopes to do today or tomorrow.

In the meantime I am simply being with what we have before us - not allowing my oh-so-fertile imagination to begin writing the rest of the story before it happens.

As I write these words the morning sun streams into my apartment hitting a bouquet of bright yellow tulips just so. For now it's sunny.