The scoop? The clinical trial is a big fail. I had a blood draw (After a rather lengthy resolution to an issue with my Hickman line. It was a panicky moment for me. Lordy, I treasure that good blood flow.) this afternoon at The Big House, and my white counts are ten miles high and climbing, meaning the drugs had no real affect on the cancer. Initially it seemed so, but now it's obvious the cocktail they were trying on me isn't the best bullet for the Kevlar coating on the leukemia cells. Oddly enough, my hemoglobin increased slightly over the weekend, and my platelets are low but not dangerously so.
Even better, I feel pretty good. I feel not sick. Saturday, I went to the Richmond Folk Music Festival, trekking after Little A for hours in the sun, followed by a great housewarming party at a friend's pad. Tonight I got to enjoy putting Little A to bed, reading him one of the favorite books of my childhood (and totally appropriate for the Halloween season), Liza Lou and the Yeller Belly Swamp. Despite the fact that my doc made me swallow EIGHT FREAKIN' HORSE PILLS tonight, I feel good. I do not feel the stupid zombie leukemia bumping and biting their way through my bloodstream.
So I cling to that happiness. Feeling good. Enjoying time with my family. Because otherwise I start looking at my treatment options as a slowly shortening list and a dark pall falls over me. Keeping the chin up and the positive attitude blaring is becoming more of a chore, especially when faced with this juggernaut of a disease. The coordinator nurse for the clinical trial told me that for as tough as I am, the cancer is merely mutated "me" cells, just as tough.
My own scant mortality is breathing heavily over my shoulder. I'm getting so damn weepy. I am not a weepy person, so this pisses me off. Tonight I was watching the little commercials towards the end of Antique Roadshow (Shut up. I like it.), and I started tearing up at an image of the bleedin' Lincoln Memorial. Because I thought of never getting to take Little A up to D.C. to see the monuments and the zoo and stuff. Farts, I am weeping about this as I type.
Dammit, I hate to cry.
I always associate crying with giving in and I don't want to give in but somehow I think maybe I don't have a choice in all of this. Maybe there is no magic bullet. Maybe this cancer can't be tamed. For all our great scientific advances, there's nothing in the medical arsenal to make it lay down and die.
So there you go. I visit my oncologist tomorrow to discuss what new cocktail of poison they are going to shoot in my veins and then sit back an observe this Freak of Nature Girl. I'm going to ask him if maybe there's the chemo equivalent of the big ass gun Vasquez carries in Aliens for the Zombie Warrior. You know something like this:
I'll more than likely be admitted to start chemo round 847 on Wednesday or Thursday. Now I am off to swallow a few more pills and try to get some sleep.
Keep on the sunny side. Always on the sunny side. Keep on the sunny side of life...
Zombie Warrior weapons check.