Today, I Am Scarlett O'Hara Again...

Today is the day.
We have been walking around this house these last few days as nervous as two long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs. 
So scared.
So worried. Praying and asking God and the doctors to give good news.
All of you (my little heartbeats) have been so wonderful and diligent.
So kind and supportive. We are no longer strangers. How can we be?
You were here with us thru this fight. 
Pushing. Reading my words.
Praying.
I love you.
We both do.


We arrive at the oncologists office 5 minutes ahead of time. As I exit the car and slam the door behind me, I tell my husband...

"When we return to this car, we will be two completely different people. Our lives are about to change directions. Remember that as we climb back in to go to go on our way."
His look says it all. Kind of a "Oh Crap" look.
We enter the building arm in arm much as we did as we walked down the aisle of our cathedral after saying "I Do" at our wedding.


Both of us have been waffling at what the results of the scan will be.
One second... 
It's going to be All Clear.
The very next half second... 
It's going to be devastating news.
We check in and sit in the waiting room. 
Time clicks by. 
My heart beat quickens each time a new patient is called in. We sit and memories of radiation and chemo slip thru my mind. OUT! Those days were so grim and cold. Today is for positive not memories of painful treatments.
We are finally called.
We pass the oncologist in the hall. 
He hugs us both in a warm bear-hug.
Wait. 
Is that a good sign or a bad sign?
We are put into a holding room to wait some more.  We try to analyze everything. 
"Did he hug us because he knows we need to go choose funeral attire or did he hug us because he is about to give us happy news?" My husband asks me.
"Good grief, stop that. He hugged us because he ...."
My mind goes off that cliff.


The door opens and the doctors smiling face enters.
We both move the very edge of our seats.
He begins to ask random, mundane health questions.
"Get to the point. The Bottom line! Enough with the chit chat." I want to get right in his face and yell.
We've been waiting 6 days for this. 
Finally, his words.
I melt.


All looks Clear.
You are in Partial Remission.


Come back in a month for another CT Scan, a Flex Scope, and a PET Scan in 2 months and we will know more. We can then see if it has spread or if it is all dead. Most of the tumors are gone but some are there and I hope inactive."


Enough said! 
We Gone.
In my mind, we are out the door and escaping this place like a 2nd grader when she hears the bell ring for recess. RUN! School's out!
Freedom! Escape.
Back to the safety of our car and away from this place!


Not so fast, lady.
What the heck is "Partial Remission?
Isn't that somewhat like saying you are Kind of Pregnant?
Just like Scarlett O'Hara would do, I pick up my handbag and practically skip out the door.  Fiddle dee dee.
"We'll think about that tomorrow."

Epic Fail

Thursday
9:30 a.m.
You know how I now feel about Thursdays. Total torture all wrapped up into a 10 hour day.
Blood Lab.
Radiation.
Chemo for 6 1/2 hours. 

Today began as the last three chemo/Thursdays  began. Up and feed "Franklin"  15 mg. Valium in the feeding tube at 7:30 to be good and onboard for the dreaded mask.
Apply the Lidocane at 8:30 to numb the port for the IV.
Be at the blood lab by 9:30.
Walk to the radiation clinic for 45 minutes of red-hot skin-shredding beams of radiation then back to the infusion clinic for chemo. (How is it I now know what an "Infusion Clinic" is anyway?)
61/2 hours of chemo then drag my poor man home and put him to bed and hope he doesn't hurl.


Today was an Epic Fail from the start.



I feed "Franklin" and add the Valium.
Out the door and I drive to the Blood Lab. We wait. 
I love the Hurry up and wait process. It's much like a busy airport, huh?
They call him in and the phlebotomist is new. She takes blood via the numbed port but then takes the IV out! Grrr.  It should remain there for the Chemo drug so not to be stuck twice.
Blood taken and down the elevator to rush to the Radiation Clinic. 
Guess What? It's broken AGAIN! Did you hear that silent Yippeeee! From my husband. We both breathe a bit of a sigh of relief. I know... It's not doing any good if the treatment isn't administered but I think a radiation-break is in order. The skin around the neck and throat are almost purple and peeling, swollen this morning so yay, Yippeeee!
We head to the Chemo building for the Cisplatin. Fun.
We get there and of course, wait.
This time they tell us we are waiting on lab reports.
We are ushered into a room to speak to a Nurse Practitioner. You guessed it. The blood values were all wrong. Low platelets, low white and red blood counts. Bad BUN and Creatinine. Am I so wrong to be happy to be a FAIL???
It's like we got a hall pass for the day. Freedom!



I am going to tell you of a fail of a different kind today.
Last night I had a 2 year old melt down. My youngest grand daughter and I have much in common, it seems. When she is mad or frustrated or doesn't get her way, what does she do? She rears herself back, her face turns red and she melts it down like a pro. She's not quite two years old. 
Last night I became Tenley in the most childish way. Let me tell you this is like living in a pressure cooker 
( Insert lame excuse right here)
Our lives have been turned upside down and inside out and rolled over  with a 12 ton bus and 15 Mack Trucks. 
It happens.
It completely got ahold of me last night and I lost it. Lost it right in the middle of the kitchen. I felt as tho I couldn't go on for another minute without exploding so I did. I did it right but did it wrong.
I raged inside and then for 3.2 seconds I had the most delicious wonderful feeling as I took my MacBook Pro and dashed it to the ground and watched it as it broke apart in to a hundred electronic pieces on the ceramic floor. 

As I said, for 3.2 seconds it felt so right. It felt so medicinal. So Deliciously evil.
 When the anger and rage and horror of what I had just done wore off.... I wasn't feeling so good again but I cried and raged inside. Got rid of it and felt regret as I looked at the pile that once was my laptop. 
Not regret for my broken laptop but regret for my broken husband and our broken lives.  I had visions of how I could take this cancer and dash it to the ground in the meanest, ugliest, wretched way and watch it break into a million bits and be gone forever to be thrown away. 
3.2 seconds of sheer glee. If only.
Oh, to be two years old again....