Pulled The Trigger

Houston, we have liftoff! 

     All the thoughts, prayers, Irish curses, gypsy curses, and everything else sent into the universe to persuade the insurance company to pull its head out did the job (as well as incessant calling from John and Jennifer).
     John called Jennifer at the cancer center at 6 a.m. this morning to coordinate her call to the insurance company as soon as their offices opened in CA.  We met with the oncologist at 8:45 a.m.  And then we waited.  And Jennifer (or Tenacious J, as I like to think of her now) hit them up at 9:00 a.m.  And John and I waited in the chemo room.  And waited.  For an hour and a half.  And the nurse came in and said, "Jennifer got the authorization.  Are you ready?"  Whaaaaat?!?  Hallelujah!  Let's get this show on the ROAD!
     I would very much like to have been a fly on the wall during that phone conversation.  Just sayin'.
     And then it was a very long day of a whole lot of nothing...I think that will be the routine of a chemo day.  My wonderful friend has dubbed this poRk-CHOP therapy--and because of the late start for the day, and the very slow introduction they have to do with the R-factor, I only got the R of the pork chop today.  The R-binds with the cancer cells in the lymphocytes specifically (I believe, according to my recently acquired Google medical degree...just go with me on this...or double check me), and because it kills quickly, there is a very fast release of toxins into the body that can cause an allergic reaction.  So they load you up with IV Benedryl to preempt as much allergic reaction as possible.  You get very sleepy (in the recliner chair with the warm blankie...zzzzzz).  Then they introduce R very slowly.  And if you tolerate it, they speed it up, and continue to do so.  I got about 2 hours in and had a reaction, so they pumped me full of steroids and we had to stop for about an hour.  Then we had to start back up even more slowly.  So I was hooked up from about 10:30 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.  Next time the R shouldn't take quite so long.
    Tomorrow is the CHOP.  They will fill me up with 3 different anti-nausea drugs first, then CHOP me.  This should take 2-3 hours.  I can possibly squeak out 24 hours without nausea from the benefit of the IV anti-nausea meds and, if I'm lucky, close to 48 hours.  Which could mean that I might be eating Thanksgiving dinner and enjoying it! Then it's just a med strategy of piggybacking and staggering various meds for nausea, and it's being tired, and feeling like crap for the next week (like a killer flu), and then those who know say you start to slowly feel better and better until, at the end of 21 days, you do it all over again. 
     The bone marrow biopsy results take a lot longer than we thought (slicing and dicing and drying and staining and reading and reporting); regardless of whether cancer cells are found, the poRk-CHOP approach remains consistent.  What that result may affect is how many times I have to start the process over.  We are looking at 6 at this point.  I'll let you know if that changes.
     The staff at the cancer center have been nothing but wonderful--I had excellent care today and they are paying close attention.  John got to do a bit of work today, and I'm hoping that once we see how this settles into a routine, he'll feel as if he can leave me for stretches at a time in the capable hands there and not feel as if he cannot do what he needs to do.  Cancer World Time is like having a toddler--you think you are going to get a lot of things done during the day, you have your list or your plan, and at the end of the day you only managed to take your kid to the park, stop him from eating bird poop, and give him a bath.  Cancer has slowed the family productivity way down.  We have to find a happy medium somewhere in here.  We'll slowly figure it out, I'm sure.
     We are relieved and excited to have the authorization and to get cracking on shrinking this tumor.  I will breathe better, I will be more comfortable, and the smaller the tumor gets, well, I'd like to think that correlates with the more likely I am to one day receive the Seal of Remission.
     BTW:  Don't EVER let me bitch about that port.  I'm serious.  If I had a needle in my arm for that amount of time today, I think I would have screamed bloody murder.  I'm a PORT fan, bigtime.  The complaints about it stop now.

A Slightly Spiritual Moment That You Can Skip If It's Not Your Thing and You Think It Sounds Like I'm Starting To Do That Cancer Blog Thing

     A lymphoma survivor was walking through the room handing out Thanksgiving goodies.  She is a sweet and sassy older woman, and she stopped and spoke to us for a long time.  She had an extremely rare form of lymphoma which has no adult protocol, and she was told by all medical professionals that she would die within a week of diagnosis.  And she's celebrating a year in remission.  And she's a total go getter--a former nurse, she's now working with TLC and planning commissions and politicians and accomplishing some really phenomenal things to support people with cancer.  I felt exhausted just hearing about all her irons in the fire.  So she was the perfect person to talk to on my very first day of rescue poison. 
     But this part is really interesting and amazing and cool--this is just the way my brain works--you don't have to share this philosophy, but:  her manner of speaking, the phrasing she used, the descriptors she had about her near-death experiences, and her explanation of how her outlook on her place in the world and the opportunities ahead of her, well, it very well could have been my mother-in-law speaking to us.  She passed a few years ago, and she was a woman of iron will and gentle spirit, and it just felt like she was there, speaking through this woman.  Just when John and I needed to hear from her the most.  Like I said, it's my thing, not everyone's thing.  But it made me feel better. It made me feel positive.  And if this lady is still around tearing up the joint after her diagnosis, well, I think I've got this.  I really do.  I am confident that I have just as much an opportunity for successfully getting rid of this cancer.
     Enjoy your Thanksgiving.  No worries if you don't see any updates for several days.  It just means I'm eating (or eating and then reversing the process), sleeping, and starting to scan the pillow in the morning for hair.  Nothing wrong--just following the process. 
     All the well wishes, all the care and concern, all the plots to take down insurance companies, the affection, the food, the jokes, the offers, the hugs, the EVERYTHING--you all make me feel as if there is no way in hell that I'm not going to come through this just fine.  And when I do, you will all know that you helped make it so.  xo

     *Old school ruled the favorites in Chemo Jams today:  Jump Around by House of Pain, Nowhere to Run by Martha and the Vandellas, and Bad to the Bone by George Thorogood and the Destroyers.