It was raining and the traffic was heavy as I made my way to the
hospital for my fourth monthly doctor’s visit on April 12th. Dr
Comfort was in a pleasant, smiling mood. His moods had noticeably brightened in
the last two visits from the more serious moods of the first visits.
Again he showed me my
immunoglobulin chart and how it was in normal range. Seeing those charts was
like watching a TV makeover. When you see how good the woman looks after she’s
had some make-up and a new wardrobe it makes you teary. It also makes you happy
that some people have devoted their lives to turning the bedraggled into
beauties. Dr Comfort always turned the screen towards me to show me the before
and after pictures of what was going on with my immunoglobulin. It was a good,
positive way to start the visit.
This time he added that I
had a “good” kind of what I had. I wasn’t sure what that meant but I didn’t
ask. I just sat there soaking in the praise. Hearing the words “normal” and
“good” made a world of difference to my day. He sounded very optimistic about
my chances. He mentioned again that there were “many good cancer drugs coming
down the line”. Today I pictured those
words like a rugby game. If I could just stay on the field without injury, I
might score a try.
After the autologous
transplant there would be time to see if I would also get the allogeneic.
Although Dr Comfort wasn’t a fan, in my case it might be necessary. The cancer
might recover from the autologous transplant like it only got a slap in the
face. A team would weigh up the pros and cons and there would be time to figure
it out later. I showed him my schedule for the stem cell collection and he said
it was pretty straightforward and that I would do well with the transplant. I
was thrilled that he had confidence in me. Although the road ahead scared me
like mad, I took a lot of solace from his words. Then he told me on top of my
other cytogenic abnormality – the translocation of 14:16, I had a further bad
prognostic marker. This time it was on chromosome 1. I wasn’t even shocked this
time. It was all part of the roller coaster of my new existence.
I would take the chemo drug,
steroids, co-trimoxazole and acyclovir for the next two weeks and have a “rest”
from the velcade shots. Hopefully I would be at the top of the transplant
waiting list by then. The visit was short and overwhelming as usual. As I was
leaving, he said:
“You’re doing really well.”
“Thank you.”
I left thinking how much I liked the man. In spite of the bad news he
had to deliver, he always added a positive spin to my visit which was always
welcome.
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