Day 23, Wednesday, February 20th, 2013

Update: at last count, Mom has listened to SEVENTY-NINE different versions of Unchained Melody, many of them multiple times. I think she may have a problem. I'd intervene, but she has headphones.

Nothing really happened today, medically or otherwise. We did head down to the SCCA for blood draw (They like my blood. I assume I am keeping a vampire from feeding on the innocent, or perhaps kids who think they are vampires equipped with fetish material. You know, whichever.), and after that there was a quick meeting with my PA, Kerry, but he actually walked in the room and said, "I didn't want to come to this meeting today, because I've got nothing for you. No news. Still waiting." This is more or less what I had expected, as key doctors have just returned from holidays. There hasn't been time for the pathologists and the lymphoma specialists to come to a solid consensus over me, not yet.

Normally, they get all of this done in a couple of weeks, and then BAM, access port installed (Hickman line), stem cell collect, pretreatment chemo/radiation, stem cells inserted, and pills, pills, pills. It's a fairly streamlined process at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, literally the Home of the Stem Cell Transplant (like a Whopper, but with less mayo). This is where transplants started, this is where all the major research comes from, and this place, this clinic, has a long term survival rate for stem cell transplant patients that is above ninety percent, which is significantly better than the literature average of seventy percent. Some hospitals' long term survival averages are down in the high fifties. I am at the best place for stem cell transplants...in the world (thank you, Jeremy Clarkson).

So, you may be wondering, what is it about me that is making this take so long? Should I tell you? I shall tell you.

What makes me so bloody complicated is the nature of my skin condition. As I've mentioned previously, I was diagnosed with mycosis fungoides in December of 2008 (on Dec 4th, my brother's birthday, no less). That diagnosis took years, and that is not a knock against the Canadian medical system; rather, it is a testament to Dr. Hull's skill that it was made at all. A mycosis fungoides diagnosis is typically made as a co-diagnosis between attending physician and clinical pathologist over the course of a long period of patient observation. In fact, looking at biopsies from my skin, you could be forgiven for coming to the conclusion that there is nothing particularly odd going on, if it weren't for the visually immediate presentation. A vanishingly small number of rogue T-cells are responsible for my troubles. It's only now, when you look at my medical history, that it becomes glaringly obvious that there is something going on, and that that something is a T-cell lymphoma.

What this has meant for the good doctors of the SCCA has been a lot of back and forth over the phone, and some rather heated discussion in person.

What it's meant for us, for me, has been the sight-seeing nature of these posts. I am, currently, probably the healthiest I have been in over three years. I'm recovering from last autumn's chemotherapy quite well (though my memory for names is still, if you'll pardon the expression, utter shit), and all of this exercise has been quite the boon to my waistline. I managed to gain a lot of weight while I was on chemotherapy. That is not a typical response.

They haven't done anything to me yet.

Oh, sure, I've had a battery of tests, and I'm not going to pretend like I enjoyed the bone marrow biopsies and the lumbar puncture, but that was a day or two of discomfort, tops. The Big Deal things are yet to happen; the chemo, the radiation, the transplants themselves. If I'm even getting two transplants! That's likely, but by no means final.

This is, however, still consistent with cancer treatment. I'll explain. Cancer treatment is all about waiting. It's always struck me as rather odd that cancer patients are characterized as warriors fighting a battle, or heroes on a journey, or any some such, because my responsibilities are somewhat less than those descriptors imply. Simply, they are twofold: I have to keep myself healthy, and I have to show up. That's it. Medically speaking, I might as well be a sack of potatoes, and I say that with the utmost respect for potatoes; I am of Irish descent, you know. Potatoes are excellent at waiting, and that is where I, too, must excel. Luckily, I've had years of practice at waiting for the Medical to Happen, so I take this sort of thing rather in stride. I realize it's not that easy for my family.

Here's a strange thing: It's a lot easier to be a patient with a serious illness than to have a loved one going through it.

Potato up, people.

How many potatoes does it take to kill an Irishman? None.

...what? Too soon?