Too young to Die

 Get Goodbye Keanu

On March 27^th Alex and I met the Auckland doctor who would present my case to the transplant team.  She was a fierce-looking, 40-something-year-old with a frosty bedside manner. She was the complete opposite of the soft-spoken doctor I had gotten used to. It was like lifting your head off a fluffy pillow and getting a bucket of water thrown in your face. When she spoke I read between the lines.

      “You look too young for your age.” (You look too young to die)

       “I allowed you to jump the queue (for appointments) because you’re a special case and I wanted to meet you.”                (I had to get you in quick, first because I’ve never met someone with plasma cell leukemia. Second, because well, I mean, my God, statistically you won’t be around very long.)

      “Although the allogeneic gives a better chance for long term survival, the risks of host/graft rejection are huge. So we will give you the autologous.” (You are unique, like Wolverine in X-men. We don’t want to kill you immediately)

      “You’ll do well in the transplant, but of course there can always be complications including kidney damage.”

(No promises)

       “The disease will come back. Even people who have the allogeneic transplant get the disease again.”

(Don’t make plans for next year.)

      “There are drug trials coming up but typically they wouldn’t consider someone with plasma cell leukemia.”

(There are too few of you to worry about.)

       “I think we’ve been too positive with you, really.”(Definitely don’t make plans for next year)

      She had one good thing to say beside the fact she thought I looked young. She hoped the t(14:16) chromosome abnormality would disappear. I didn’t know this was possible and was immediately buoyed by the fact that it could be possible. This was the aberrance that Dr Comfort had warned was a fatal prognostic factor. That would be amazing news if it was gone.

      But, she couldn’t help herself. Before we left her, she reiterated that my disease was a bad one.

      “If you google it - in fact don’t google it.” (You’re a goner. Nurse, next patient please.)

      With two doctors telling me I would do well during the transplant, I was no longer worried about the risk, the pain, and the bald head. I really believed I would cope with it fine. Not satisfied to have a day off however, now I was scared of the time after the transplant - when the cancer returned and there was nothing left to do. It all seemed scarily futile.

      To lighten the mood Alex talked about planning a trip to Italy.

      “Let’s spend the money. What are we saving it for?”

      “I won’t be going anywhere this year.” ( I was being horribly ungracious )

      “I know.”

      “And I won’t be comfortable going anywhere until I’ve had good blood result for months after the recovery period from my transplant. So I wouldn’t be able to do anything until the end of 2013.” (What a bitch)

      I had always wondered why, when people got diagnosed with something like I had, why didn’t they just jump up, spend their life savings and travel the world?  The answer is your lifeline is your doctor. Whether it’s the soft-spoken or hard-assed type, if there was the remotest chance that you could be saved or that your life could be extended by even a few months, you hung on to it with everything you had, even if it meant missing out on seeing the world. That was the state I was in now. My doctor was like my oxygen tank. Without him I didn’t know if I was going to be able to breathe on my own.