IS THIS WEEK OVER YET?
Following an entire weekend spent tethered to the toilet, I took the required steroids and went into Holy Cross for my Monday spa day. However, my platelets were too low for me to receive the Velcade so I left without it. Initially I found this worrisome until I learned it is just what the chemo does and I will have to wait for the platelets to return and/or to reduce the level of the Velcade. Since I didn't have the Velcade I didn't take the steroids on Tues; thus began the steroid withdrawal.
On Tuesday I was feeling tired and vulnerable. While Jeff and I were discussing my current and possible future home care needs he said something to the effect that the house and all its responsibilities were more than I could handle on my own. (His fear was that should I suddenly deteriorate, as well I could, then he would be left with full responsibility for me and my care.) I glanced out the window at the river feeling as if pierced by a knife. I felt bereft as I thought of losing this house that I love so much and I began to cry. For the very first time in the two years since I was diagnosed I plummeted into a depth of grief and anger I had not been able to even skim. I sank into the throes of self-pity. And as I cried my mind silently screamed at the unfairness of it all! And then, like our daily tropical storms, it passed as suddenly as it had arrived leaving behind puddles of sorrow.
All the time I have been writing this blog I have scanned my internal horizon looking for this anger and grief but finding nothing. To find it, to feel it, to express it rinsed away some level of denial of which I was not even aware. Both Jeff and I were left in tears at the sheer emotional rawness of it. And, ironically, both of us felt liberated by it and have gone on to effortlessly establish current and contingency plans for my home care as I may require it.
That was Tuesday morning. In the afternoon I received an email from Elizabeth Trice, my oncology Fellow telling me that her fellowship was coming to a close at the end of this month and she was leaving both Dana Farber and the study of myeloma. Quite simply, Elizabeth is a medical and human treasure. She has been the smiling face and warm heart of my medical Dream Team.
The morning after I checked into Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston to double-check an earlier diagnosis of Multipla Myeloma that I had received in New York, I was awakened by a young doctor standing at the foot of my bed at 7 AM introducing herself as Dr Elizabeth Trice, an oncology fellow at Dana Farber Cancer Institute. I immediately knew two things: I really did have cancer and I intuitively liked this woman. From the very first moment she has been the one with whom I have had the most trusting and affectionate relationship -even when her caution sometimes annoyed the shit out of me. During the process of my recent operation to install a titanium rod in my left femur I had to be checked out by several specialists. Elizabeth emailed one day to tell me she was tracking me everyday through the online tests and notes that the others would make about me. That is a kind of medical practice that originates in the heart! She has long been at the very core of my love story.
The man she worked for, Dr Robert Schlossman, is a brilliant expert and I trust his medical judgement without question and feel quite secure in his profesional hands. Nevertheless, I will miss Elizabeth like none other.
Three hours after the email I became aware of a fairly sharp, unrelenting pain in my ribs. My intuition, which I struggle to doubt, tells me it's bone pain. Few things frighten me more.
Exhausted, I tumbled into bed where I proceeded to wake every hour all night long and every night since.
Following an entire weekend spent tethered to the toilet, I took the required steroids and went into Holy Cross for my Monday spa day. However, my platelets were too low for me to receive the Velcade so I left without it. Initially I found this worrisome until I learned it is just what the chemo does and I will have to wait for the platelets to return and/or to reduce the level of the Velcade. Since I didn't have the Velcade I didn't take the steroids on Tues; thus began the steroid withdrawal.
On Tuesday I was feeling tired and vulnerable. While Jeff and I were discussing my current and possible future home care needs he said something to the effect that the house and all its responsibilities were more than I could handle on my own. (His fear was that should I suddenly deteriorate, as well I could, then he would be left with full responsibility for me and my care.) I glanced out the window at the river feeling as if pierced by a knife. I felt bereft as I thought of losing this house that I love so much and I began to cry. For the very first time in the two years since I was diagnosed I plummeted into a depth of grief and anger I had not been able to even skim. I sank into the throes of self-pity. And as I cried my mind silently screamed at the unfairness of it all! And then, like our daily tropical storms, it passed as suddenly as it had arrived leaving behind puddles of sorrow.
All the time I have been writing this blog I have scanned my internal horizon looking for this anger and grief but finding nothing. To find it, to feel it, to express it rinsed away some level of denial of which I was not even aware. Both Jeff and I were left in tears at the sheer emotional rawness of it. And, ironically, both of us felt liberated by it and have gone on to effortlessly establish current and contingency plans for my home care as I may require it.
That was Tuesday morning. In the afternoon I received an email from Elizabeth Trice, my oncology Fellow telling me that her fellowship was coming to a close at the end of this month and she was leaving both Dana Farber and the study of myeloma. Quite simply, Elizabeth is a medical and human treasure. She has been the smiling face and warm heart of my medical Dream Team.
The morning after I checked into Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston to double-check an earlier diagnosis of Multipla Myeloma that I had received in New York, I was awakened by a young doctor standing at the foot of my bed at 7 AM introducing herself as Dr Elizabeth Trice, an oncology fellow at Dana Farber Cancer Institute. I immediately knew two things: I really did have cancer and I intuitively liked this woman. From the very first moment she has been the one with whom I have had the most trusting and affectionate relationship -even when her caution sometimes annoyed the shit out of me. During the process of my recent operation to install a titanium rod in my left femur I had to be checked out by several specialists. Elizabeth emailed one day to tell me she was tracking me everyday through the online tests and notes that the others would make about me. That is a kind of medical practice that originates in the heart! She has long been at the very core of my love story.
The man she worked for, Dr Robert Schlossman, is a brilliant expert and I trust his medical judgement without question and feel quite secure in his profesional hands. Nevertheless, I will miss Elizabeth like none other.
Three hours after the email I became aware of a fairly sharp, unrelenting pain in my ribs. My intuition, which I struggle to doubt, tells me it's bone pain. Few things frighten me more.
Exhausted, I tumbled into bed where I proceeded to wake every hour all night long and every night since.
3 comments:
Gary, I've not comment awhile given my own 'stuff' happening. . .but I do notice a theme in your writing-- from a medical professional viewpoint (and friend): HEALING WITH THE HEART. As an occupational therapist, we are taught that the uniqueness of our profession is that we 'heal with our hearts as well as with our hands.' You have confirmed that 110%. You have had many your way who do just that: heal with each heart's intention. You are loved. Jeanette
Ai carumba! Sorry to hear about your current discomfort. Being alive can get rather dificult and messy, and you are more alive than most! Can't thank you enough for sharing your experience, good, bad, indifferent, as it inspires me and others to be stronger and more resourceful with our own challenges, paling as they may do, in comparison. Your impact and value is felt more than ever. Praying for your comfort, peace and joy and grateful for the continued contact.
Gary, I was just thinking of you and, so, checking in on your blog. It's beautifully written... even though that's beside the point... Or maybe it IS the point. It's a thing of beauty, as are you. So I just wanted to say I think of your fight often and hope that this new week started a bit easier than the last one ended. Love, Josh
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