Dr's Visit Number 3

 http://www.amazon.com/Goodbye-Keanu-multiple-myeloma-ebook/dp/B00CB87K8Y

I had a frightening day on March 9th.

      I messed everything up. I forgot to put an egg in the muffin mix. Then I dropped another egg on the floor. I didn’t read the directions correctly and made the pastry for the cheese and onion pasties all wrong. Okay so I was never a really good cook but it wasn’t the only symptom. I started forgetting the names of simple household objects. I stared at a round, stainless steel bowl full of little holes and it took an hour to remember it was a colander.  I felt like Denny Crane from Boston Legal. On top of cancer, I was developing Alzheimer’s. I was going to end up a crazy, incoherent, middle-aged mess.

      Maybe it was because I was consumed with my slim chances of recovery that I couldn’t concentrate on domestic tasks. As soon as Alex got home that evening I presented him with thick, tasteless pasties and the pronouncement of my inescapable fate.

      “Cancer always comes back and kills you in the end.” (sniff) (yin)

      “That’s not true. A guy I worked with had cancer and he’s been in remission for like ten years.” (yang)

      “Really?”  (I was ready to hang on to anything.)

      “Yeah, and he was really bad.”

      I didn’t know what type of cancer he had. But he was in the cancer family, so in that way his progress was related to mine. At least that’s what people think. Cancer is treated as a one-size fits all brand of suffering. The communal reaction to hearing that someone has cancer is a shaking of the head and an acknowledgement of gloom. No one ever says: “What type of cancer do they have because people are living with myeloma for years now and they’ve made great advancements in melanoma, and breast cancer is easy to treat if caught early.” In news reports they never distinguish between types of cancer. They just give a generic: “She lost her battle with cancer” or “He had been fighting cancer for three years”. Now that I was in the cancer family I wanted more details. What type of cancer? Which brand of leukemia? Was it the same type I had and how long had they been “battling?” That is why I hate the word “cancer”. Once people hear you have it, it puts you in the great melting pot of the unsalvageable.

      On March 15^th I had my third monthly doctor’s appointment. I arrived late, sweating and apologising, but Dr Comfort was as calm and collected as always.

      The first two monthly doctor’s appointments in January and February were far more terrifying. I thought I might have a matter of days or weeks to live. By March I was more used to the routine of my shattered existence. I even went to the appointment without Alex.

      For the third time in a row, my monthly blood test showed good results. My immunoglobulin was in normal range. My liver function and kidneys were fine. The plasma cells tested in my blood appeared to be “mature” rather than immature and that was good too. I didn’t know why. But it sounded great.

      The doctor told me he went to a talk by an expert from the Mayo Clinic on multiple myeloma and the poor prognosis of patients with the chromosomal abnormality t(14:16) which I had. My doctor questioned the expert after the talk.

      “I asked him if the poor prognosis was strictly true. He wavered.”

      My research had shown hot debate on this topic as well. I was thrilled Dr Comfort had approached the expert on my behalf and got him to fluctuate. I felt like we had just discovered the handshake to a secret society. It also proved to me that my doctor was in my corner. He was fighting for my survival as much as I was.

      But then he threw me a curve. I would now definitely have an autologous stem cell transplant at the end of two more cycles of chemo drugs. So it would be scheduled in eight weeks’ time. This was a complete turnaround from last month’s appointment when the tone was “let’s wait and see”. Alex and I looked at each other with squinted eyes of incomprehension. After the last appointment I had told my family the drugs were doing so well I might not need the transplant. Now I was going to have to deliver the bombshell that I was going to have one in a few months.

      Dr Comfort told me the government funded a finite number of these transplants each year and there was a waiting list. 

      “But you should get in quickly.”

      Sadly I knew that was due to my rare and aggressive condition. The risk of dying soon put me at the top of the list. Again he would not promise me anything. My outcome was completely unknown. Seeing me gulping down this information, Dr Comfort smiled.

      “You are a good risk going into the transplant. There is a risk of infection but they can control that fairly well.” His smile widened.

      “That’s good.” I mumbled. I was still trying to absorb the reality of the transplant. In spite of the “good risk” speech, the urgency had me on edge.

      He said an allogeneic transplant might also be in my future although he was no longer a fan of this procedure. The risks of rejection, infection and death were too high. But if there was a good match from a sibling it could factor into the equation. There was also a donor “mini-transplant” which could be an option for me.

      He reiterated, from last month, that the reason he didn’t want to rush me into an allogeneic transplant was that there were good cancer drugs “in the pipeline”. If I held on long enough I might benefit from these drugs.

      “Will you wait until the leukemia comes back before I get an allogeneic transplant?” I asked. I imagined cancer cells were like little piñatas. They would lie dormant until one day they broke open scattering cancer as far as it could reach and killing me within days.

      “No. We wouldn’t wait that long. A team will discuss the best options for you.”