I had a fairly full week, medically speaking. Ça débloque, as they say in French here.

On Monday, I met with the oncologist and did a blood test. I am no longer neutropenic. About fucking time. This is the pre-chemo meeting with the doctor that I always do. Originally, he had not planned to do anything about the bone marrow issues I may have, as it does not alter what they plan to do. However, they didn't have a plan. I think that it is for this reason and others that he changed his mind and decided to give me a bone marrow biopsy yesterday.

I have heard some horror stories about this procedure and about how unbelievably painful it is, and raised the concern with my doctor. He said, and I quote: "I don't mean to brag, but I am pretty good at this." And what do you know? He was better than his word. The worst part of it was the freezing, and that was practically nothing. I still feel nothing there except a bandage. And I thought that I would need painkillers for a few days.

I was still concerned about the date of the PET scan because we still didn't have one. We had at that time pretty much decided that since it was likely that I wasn't to have a scan until March, and that it had already been a month and a half since I had had any treatment at all that I should go ahead with the treatment scheduled for Wednesday of this week, and continue until the scan day, with modifications due to my bone marrow sensitivity. Joy. Even more time off work.

He did suggest that I stop by the nuclear medicine wing if I had time to see if they could schedule me. They gave me February 25, which, while better than March, still wasn't that great. They said that they recognized my name, though; my doctor should have contacted the main nuclear medicine doctor in order to try to squeeze me in. I wondered why my doctor didn't already know this. I walked back upstairs to let him know. It was at this time that I ran into my pivot nurse who told me that my doctor was actually on the phone with the nuclear medicine doctor right then trying to take care of it. When he got off the phone, he said that everything would be taken care of, whatever that means.

Just as I was leaving the hospital, I received a phone call stating that I would have my scan next week. They just weren't sure when. Wow.

I was supposed to meet with the radiation oncologist this past Wednesday (yes, this and the chemo were scheduled to be at the exact same time), so I rushed up to their office to let them know about the upcoming PET scan. It would have been useless to see me before the scan, so they asked me to call to reschedule right after I got a definite appointment. Keep in mind, it's still Monday.

On Wednesday, I received a call. There was a cancellation for the next day. My PET scan was scheduled for 1:30 on Thursday. It went off without a hitch, as always. This plus the biopsy report will greatly help determine what the next course of action will be. There is a small possibility that I would be able to return to work fairly soon. I have one meeting with radiation on February 2, and the other with chemo a week later. We'll see what they say.

Life is totally on hold. I enrolled in two classes in the faint hopes that I might actually be able to take one of them; that I might have four months in a row in which I could plan my life and do something with it. But of course, that was not to be.

I spoke to my oncologist and my pivot nurse. The doctor wants all the relevant information before they make any decisions as to what to do with me, which means a PET scan. Makes sense; I want that, too. However, as I mentioned, the request for the scan seemed to have been ignored. The pivot nurse said that as of now, if I were to go through the normal channels, I wouldn't get one until MARCH.

The radonc (radiation oncologist) is away until the 21st, and the medonc (medical oncologist) doesn't see the value in me seeing someone who doesn't know me in the interim. I found out that I have chemo scheduled for the 21st as well. Who scheduled this and why is still a mystery. Here we can see how the system is flawed and needs a serious tuning: The only one that knows everything about what is happening with me, is me. Let's make a list, in no particular order (because I want to see how this template makes lists):

• The pivot nurse didn't know that I had chemo scheduled the same day as my supposed consult with the radonc.
  
• I would not have been notified of the scheduled chemo until much later if I didn't ask about the PET scan two weeks ago. I wouldn't have known that chemo was still an option right now if I hadn't called about the scan.
• Whoever scheduled or ordered the chemo didn't ask anyone else what else I had that day or in the days following.
• The medonc didn't know that we had a pre-chemo meeting on the 19th until I told him.
• The request for a PET scan went out on December 18; but as of January 7, no one had any idea what happened to it, and as of today, there is still no news. The medonc is leaning on people.

I don't really feel like it yet. It'll probably happen a bit later if I feel like it again. I'll just give a cancer update here. The bad news is that I will be able to attend a New Year's party tonight. You'll see why it's bad news.

I started the new chemo on October 22. It was...all right. This time around it was only marginally better than typical. The big difference with this protocol is that it also gives you a weird sensitivity to cold. You don't necessarily feel colder, but being outside in less than 20-degree weather makes the insides of your nostrils, face and under the fingernails hurt. For five days I couldn't even go into the fridge without special gloves let alone go outside. Of course, I wouldn't necessarily want to go outside anyway since I felt like shit anyway.

In addition to the liquid chemotherapy infusion, I took some disgusting pills every day. They tasted like shit, and made any liquid I took them with taste just as bad. It was a struggle to swallow eight of them a day, especially during the first five days when my senses of taste, smell and nausea were elevated. At least the place wasn't the vomitorium it usually is. Just a little less than normal.

I was to have another treatment on November 12, but as usual, I was neutropenic. I didn't have to wait a whole week. I had to wait TWO whole weeks. Two weeks. And it all started again on November 26th. I have been working with a pivot nurse that has really been able to help me out in terms of symptoms.She determined that I had "anticipatory nausea", which basically means that part of the nausea that I have was all in my head. I would dread it beforehand and cause it to happen. For example, one of the anti-puke pills they give you is called Zofran. When I am on treatment, I can't even say that name without gagging. To combat this, I was given Ativan. (Many of you know seem to know what this is. I am curious as to why.) It seemed to help, as this treatment was the "best poison session I've had" since the surgery. I only launched about 7-8 times, although the cold sensitivity seemed to linger.

I promised to update people on things, and here is my chance to do so.

The last month has been up and down in a number of ways. Work has changed completely. We are in the last stages of our project. People are working overtime, but not huge amounts of it. We have essentially run out of people to do/fix the subtitles so, since I wasn't doing much as a PM anyway because of the nature of both the project and management, I was tapped to be the Senior Subtitle Implementation Programmer. (Did you like that new title I just made up? I've got management written all over me.)

This has changed certain things. I no longer have time to read blogs all day, and so I no longer feel the need to write about certain things right now. I'll get back to it, though, as I think that it is an important topic that most people would rather not discuss frankly. I am not nearly as bored as I was. It was a good bored, not a bad bored, so it wasn't really terrible at all. I got to read blogs all day, after all.

I hope to survive. I do have expectations of survival, but they aren't nearly as strong as they used to be. Last night I was awake all night thinking about my decline and death. I had to remind myself at 5 am that my chances are actually very good. It's hard to think positively (or rationally, sometimes) when you are suffering. That's what chemotherapy is. Suffering. I should see it as a cure, as a salvation, but when you can barely think, feed yourself or even stand, it's hard to be positive.

But I am not sad or depressed, since I am not fully into the belief that I will die. No one has said it, and treatment is only half over. Anything can happen, and that is where hope and fear coincide. I'll probably be my normal self in a day or two.

My brother-in-law says that I should be enjoying myself as much as possible. I wonder what the subtext is...

UPDATE: Immediately after writing this, I came upon this. If you believe in...stuff, well this is probably stuff worth paying attention to.