Whoa, Camel!

What a Difference a Year Makes: Independance Day Edition

2008-07-06T21:08:00.008-04:00

Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2006

Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2007

Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2008

You want the base model or a fully loaded MurderTank?

2008-07-03T10:51:00.005-04:00

This one's for my pals over at Pajiba. Frequently in the comment threads, there is mention of a mythical MurderTank that serves as the method by which the Pajibites will wipe out the fetid, poo smear that is Hollywood. Don't ask me from whence the MurderTank originated because, like many terms (Whiskeybabyninjastar and Godtopus) that sprang forth in full armor from the minds of Pajiba, the first mention of it is buried deep within the confines of some long forgotten thread and has now become the stuff of legend.

Anyway, because he is a fellow zombie warrior my uncle sent me a link to a pretty funny Wired article about the best post-apocalyptic vehicles. Two of the vehicles profiled provided me with pretty decent visuals of what the MurderTank looks like, which up until this point in my mind looked like Land of the Dead's crazy dreadnought RV/tank.

For your consideration:

The Dingo pictured here looks pretty basic but it does boast a heavily armored exterior, 7.62 mm machine gun, 40 mm grenade launcher, and for an added plus, it's air conditioned!

But then there's the Stryker.

Um yeah.

When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherf***ing zombie in a five mile radius, accept no substitutes.

Do you think Henrico County will have a problem when I start parking one of these in front of the house?

Have a great Independence Day everyone!

Am I remiss?

2008-06-28T20:40:00.003-04:00

The Mister claims I am holding back good news from everyone. Well, here you are:

Yesterday afternoon, my doc called to confirm what The Mister had already predicted: According to the biopsy from Tuesday, I am in remission. My blood work also said as much; my counts have been climbing pretty rapidly. From Tuesday to Friday my hemoglobin went from 8.2 to 9.1 and my white counts went from 2-something to 3.2. The doc said he even double-checked the dates because he couldn't believe everything had come up so fast.

So yeah! Do a happy dance! Zombie Warrior's flamethrower action seemed to do the trick. Whoosh!

But don't break out the Bollinger just yet. I ain't cured. The leukemia's just been driven into hiding for a while. There's still more chemo for me on the horizon, standard treatment for any flavor of leukemia. Plus, let's not forget I have the rabid, fast-moving Danny Boyle-esque zombie leukemia cells. Odds are that there's a Typhoid Mary lurking about to kick start a disappointing, sloppy sequel. Bone marrow transplantation is still very much on the table.

Speaking of which, I was supposed to have a big meeting Thursday with the BMT team until the scheduling nurse screwed the pooch and neglected to actually put me on the calendar. She called Wednesday night to let me know this, and now I have to reschedule, hopefully sometime soon. Thppt.

For now, I am enjoying the fact that I feel better than I have in a quite a while and no longer need to be hyper-vigilant about germs. Plus, no more clinic visit until July 7th! A whole week off from Cancerville! Yeah! I'm not going to know what to do with all this time on my hands.

Maybe spend some quality time romping with my boy? Yeah, that sounds awesome.

And one more thing, a big fuzzy thanks to everyone who keeps sending me care packages and goodies and positive e-mails. I swear one of these days thosee e-mails will get answered and thank you cards sent out. Until then, please know that you guys are all awesome and I love you big honey bunches of oats.

The Making of a Movie Buff

2008-06-23T17:43:00.007-04:00

Today, we took Little A to see Kung Fu Panda, his first movie in a movie theater. This kid comes from a long line of movie lovers, so naturally he enjoys a good flick. He's already a big fan of Cars and The Incredibles, and even at his tender age will sit mesmerized through these rather long movies. But he's not yet had the complete movie theater experience, and this year we decided he would be old enough to have the patience for a full-length picture, to appreciate the big screen, and to not get freaked out at the dark or the volume.

By the way, how much does it bug me when parents bring age-inappropriate children to movies? Like an infant who invariably starts screaming or babbling in the middle of the film and whose parents seem to think the best approach is to try and calm the baby there rather than GET UP AND WALK OUT OF THE THEATER WITH YOUR SCREAMING CHILD. Or like the mother I saw with her two elementary-school-age sons at a showing of Jackie Brown because that's teaching them fabulous things about guns, sex, and profane language. Or like the mother we saw in line to buy tickets with her three-year-old daughter as we were leaving Iron Man at some time past 10 o'clock because that's an awesome time to see a movie with your toddler. Okay, sure I understand maybe not having the dough for a babysitter or maybe having a hard time finding a dependable one. But for crying out loud people, just suck it up and wait for it to come out on DVD.

Anyway, I digress.

We've been hyping this movie experience and Kung Fu Panda since I got out of the hospital after my first round of chemo. We've been watching the online trailers, reading the book, and we even got some Happy Meal toys. I've been pretty jazzed about this, my son's first movie-going experience. Once the doctors declared me no longer neutropenic, we got busy picking out a day and a showing. We packed snacks, put on a snazzy polo shirt with pandas embroidered in the corner, and set off to meet my mom at the theater.

Then due to a mix-up with the times, we ended up there an hour early. Snort. But it was good opportunity to grab a quick lunch.

Occasionally, there are moments when Little A does something that makes me wonder if he truly is the fruit of my loins. Today, for instance, he summarily rejected popcorn. My mom talked him into trying a piece which he promptly ejected from his mouth. Doesn't like popcorn. Huh.

We settled into our seats. Immediately, Little A seemed puzzled as to why we were being forced to watch commercials. I told him I wonder the same thing too some times. Once the movie started, Little A was mesmerized. The only time he talked out loud was to inquire about the usher who came into the theater to make his rounds ("What's that man doing?"). I loved seeing his big grin whenever he recognized a favorite line or scene from one of the trailers we watch.

But I think the whole event, coupled with the darkness and the fact that the sound was a little low, wore him down. By the last ten or fifteen minutes of the movie, he was starting to look drowsy, but I think the final battle scene roused him out of his stupor. All in all, he seemed to enjoy the experience. The scenes with the younger Tai Lung and Master Tigress being the most memorable so far.

Later, when talking about his experiences, Little A made sure to mention the "holes in the seats to put our drinks in." My kid remember the cupholders. Awesome.

The day's events have pretty well baked his noodle because it's taken me a good while to try and spin him down for sleepytime. Whew. I guess our big screen adventures will be few and far between, at least for now.

On one last note, I've got a bone marrow biopsy tomorrow. Just a reminder of my friends, the zombie leukemia cells. Let's hope and pray that the last scorched earth approach has kept them somewhat at bay. Otherwise, the Zombie Warrior's going to start investing in some nuclear goodies for her arsenal.

My Poor Butt

2008-06-19T20:37:00.005-04:00

*Quick note before I start this post: I am home. I was discharged this evening. Fever came and went and I am infection free. Good news is also that my neutrophils are high enough to render me no longer neutropenic which means I don't have to don my sexy mask whenever I go out in public. But I am still suffering from rashy, flaky skin and a charming flushed face, all thanks to the antibiotics. Antibiotics are my catch-22; I need the little buggers to keep me healthy, but then again they like to wreak havok on my skin and my intestines, leading me to the subject of this post...*

Let me warn you all, dear readers, this post falls under the LeukemiaTown:TMI sub-header. You are duly forewarned.

My bowel issue I originally wrote about was this bizarre bout of constipation that started around Tuesday evening. I would describe it thusly: The train was in the station, the station wanted the train to leave, but the train simply would not depart. And no amount of shoving from my steam engine, could push the train out. The pushing was actually causing me a measure of pain and discomfort, a measure that steadily increased with time. My body wanted me to go and kept sending me signals to go, but still, despite my efforts, no deal.

The nurse gave me a stool softener. This seemed to have no effect, so I got a second pill. On Wednesday morning, after still no results from the stool softeners, I was given the most bizarre laxative. It was in the form of a little bottle of lemon-lime club soda. The lemon-lime flavor was present, except there this bizarre, thick plastic under taste. It was like drinking a Barbie Soda. I drank the whole bottle, waited about four hours, and then, after still no results, I got panicky.

See, I am not generally a weeper, but I guess when it comes to my precious bowels, I am a little sensitive. My frustrations and terrors and pain all came to a head, and I cried a bit in front of the nurse. What a wuss I am when I can't take a proper crap.

Docs sent me for an x-ray to rule out an obstructed bowel. While awaiting results, around three o'clock, a curious thing happened. There was movement. Yeah! Results! No enema!

Then all hell broke loose, and I got raging, crampy, butt-punishing diarrhea. Barbie Soda was a little bit too effective. For the next few hours, I got well acquainted with my bathroom. You know, I don't think I've ever had anything like this. There were these stunning cramps that ran all the way down my abdomen, cramps so strong my ab muscles are sore today. This cramping would cause me to bug my eyes out, kick the wall, and exclaim some nonsensical gibberish because frankly I was too busy being horrified of my own intestines to talk straight.

All I know is thank goodness there was one of those handicapped railings right beside me so that every time a good wave of cramping set in I could grab onto it like I was riding the Wild Diarrhea Coaster.

It was some intense bunch of stuff.

There'd even be instances where I get that feeling, make a dash for the bathroom (as much as one can when one is hooked up to an IV), only to get to the toilet and have to wait five minutes before the show started. Daggit.

Needless to say: My poor butt.

Now that I'm home, seems like the excitement is slowly dying down. My rides on the Wild Diarrhea Coaster are becoming fewer and far between, and turning more into rides on the Gentle Diarrhea Skyrail.

But I have made a few discoveries during this fun period of intestinal excitement. One: Those wet toilet paper wipes my grandmother, who swore by them, gave me a few years back actually come in handy in these types of circumstances.

Two: Boudreaux's Butt Paste works fabulously to soothe big people butts as well.

Back in the clink

2008-06-18T10:18:00.003-04:00

Well, I broke the terms of my parole and ran a fever (103.6 to be exact). So they threw me in the Big House again. I've been here since Monday night getting antibiotics and trying to keep my temp down.

There's no indication of when I'll be going home. I've developed a fun new rash in response to one of the antibiotics.

Also, I'm having some scary trouble with my bowels that isn't responding to the usual treatments. I'll spare you the gory details, but I'm concerned that there's something seriously wrong. The doctor told me to wait until around 11 this morning to see if the latest medicine they gave me worked. It hasn't and in about a half an hour, I'm going to start beating my drum to see a gastroenterologist or somebody who might be able to figure out what the problem is.

I don't want to be here for a long stay, but I also don't want to leave until my bowel situation is cleared up.

So, I am not in a good place right now.

Liquid Gold

2008-06-12T22:25:00.005-04:00

It's expensive to get sick. This is not startling news. Many of us have felt the burn paying out-of-pocket for doctor visits or God forbid, an emergency room experience. Yikes.

Try getting really sick. Like With The Cancer sick.

Holy Moley.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an itemized bill for my first stretch in the Big House (for which we, so far, don't owe a penny, thank The Maker).

Yeah. Um. Wow. Add Your Favorite Potent Expletive Here.

The total bill was nearly as much as the asking price for our house when we bought it. Almost half that amount was represented by the line item "Pharmacy". Chemo is some seriously expensive poison, not to mention the litany of antibiotics, pre-chemo drugs, and various other pills and such I received as part of my treatment. Apparently, had I been given the choice, I could have either gotten the medicine or for the same amount of money bought a fairly well appointed luxury vehicle.

Obviously, if you want to strike it rich, get into manufacturing chemotherapy drugs. Black gold, Texas tea. Pshaw. More like idarubicin and fludarabine and cytarabine.

Now that I am home, my doc's got me on a one-two combo of highly potent antibiotics to prevent possible infections. One of these medications couldn't be filled by my usual Target pharmacy nor did the hospital pharmacy have it. Our local uber-pharmacy, Westbury, came to rescue. When I went to pick it up, the pharmacist, a charming older man, leaned over the counter and said with a twinkle in his eye, "Honey, you've got insurance, right?" I whipped out that card like I was showing my papers at a dicey border crossing. The going price for 105 mL bottle of this antibiotic (made specifically to combat fungal infections in people with compromised immune systems) is... are you ready for this...

$800

Sweet baby Moses; that's almost a mortgage payment.

Fortunately, we only (and I am using "only" very loosely here people) had to pony up $108 for my eensy bottle. 105 ml ain't a whole lot. Here's the rub: I gotta take a spoonful of this stuff three times a day. I've been taking it for less than a week, and the the bottles just about half empty. I know my doc's going to want me to continue taking my antibiotics at least as long as I am neutropenic. First time through chemo, it took me weeks to get my shitty white cells to eek across that border. So this might mean refill.

Laws.

All I know is that if I as much as get a freaking yeast infection while I am taking Liquid Gold the manufacturer is going to be getting at least a nasty phone call from me. Maybe I'll sick Zombie Warrior on their butts, screaming for my $108 back.

When I was examining the box the other day to see who makes this caviar of anti-fungals, I came across an interesting fact; it's made in Ireland. That explains it.

Leprechauns.

Summer's Here

2008-06-10T22:47:00.005-04:00

Here's your much needed break from Amanda's Health Woes with some unrepentant toddler cuteness.

I present to you, Little A on his playground:

And yes, that is the face he makes when you ask him to smile. Killer, I know.

This is his "serious driver" look. I believe at the time he told me he was driving Grave Digger.

This is Little A's dismount pose from the slide where he is "waving to his fans". I couldn't make this up if I tried.

The last few days here in RVA have been blazin'. Our recent nightly ritual has been kicking back with some hot sprinkler action.

I tried to get some action shots of Little A running around the sprinkler, but every time I raised my camera, he wanted to pose.

"I'm all soaking wet!"

A Glass Hammer and a Bag of Nothing

2008-06-08T21:30:00.004-04:00

That's me. Useless. Bad blogger. No doughnut.

Round two of chemo went by with little event or trauma. Five days of hanging out in the hospital, getting my poison, discovering an addiction to crossword puzzles, and watching cable tv. My biggest issue was a narsty case of indigestion I developed in The Big House that has followed me home like a gassy little puppy. So if I were to be classified as a celestial body, I'd be a Gas Giant. Me and Jupiter.

This recovery process has been weird. I'm not in the hospital where I lie about all day getting tending to and poked by medical professionals. I'm enjoying the comforts of home, but also being home, I have a hard time just being a slug and letting my body get better. I want to do stuff. Plus, try explaining "recovery process" to a toddler. The first two days I was home, I was pretty much a zombie. I had Adrian stay home with me on Thursday so I could sleep all day.

One of the side effects of my treatment is Nasty Mouth. The pervasive taste in my mouth has been that of sucking on ball bearings. This charming metallic taste worsens when I eat or drink anything. Drinking plain water is the worst; it's like I've licked the inside of a faucet. Get the picture? Coupled with my raging indigestion, eating and drinking hasn't been a pleasurable experience as of late. (But for some strange reason, Taco Bell bean and cheese burritos are the only food product I crave constantly that don't exacerbate either my Nasty Mouth or my Crazy Intestines.)

This is how I came to be severely dehydrated on Friday.

I woke up, ready to be off for a long day at the Dalton Clinic, or as I like to call it, Cancerville. I knew I was prepping for a blood transfusion (PLEASE GIVE BLOOD!) Friday; my doc assumed that my hemoglobin would probably be low. Every unit of blood I receive takes at least two hours to complete. This timeframe however does not include all the hospital rigamorole I have to go through before the transfusion even begins.

Back to Friday morning. After waking, I soon discovered that I couldn't walk across the room without nearly fainting. I could barely stand without swooning. Good times. My mother-in-law arrived to look after Little A for the morning, saw I was in this state, and called my doctor. They of course wanted me down at the Clinic ASAP and suggested an ambulance. My response: Um. No. My dad showed up to ferret me down to Cancerville, I sucked up, drank some water, felt moderately better, dressed, and got to Cancerville without the charming services of Lakeside Volunteer Rescue.

After what seemed like an enormous wait once my blood was drawn, the White Coat Folks decide to give me some fluids which perked me right up like the Water of Lourdes. They also decided to pump me full of two units of platelets and two units of blood (Don't forget to GIVE BLOOD!). Platelets take about a half an hour a unit to completely transfuse. Remember what I said about the time involved with a blood transfusion? It was going to take so stinking long to finish my treatment that I ended up being transferred to an entirely different part of the hospital to get my two units of blood. (Which really was fine because when I was in Cancerville getting my platelets, there was a woman in the room next to me retching her guts out loudly. The whole time. Guh. Plus this other unit had television in the rooms.)

On Friday, I got to Cancerville at about 10 a.m. My dad got me home at about 9:30 p.m. that night. God bless my saint of a mother-in-law who stayed nearly the whole time.

Needless to say, I've stocked up on a variety of beverages to help hydrate my Big Stupid Butt, including a return to a long lost favorite, Blue PowerAde, and yummy fruit nectars.

Oh and what was the first piece of mail to greet me upon returning home Friday? A freaking summons for jury duty. Federal court, too. I've been thinking about writing "Leukemia, bitches" on the back when I send it in to be excused.

A Pleasant Fiction

2008-05-29T22:23:00.011-04:00

Last night, the Mister and I had our second movie date night of my furlough. We went to see the new Indy movie (which was fairly entertaining but lacking the sparkle of its predecessors, especially Raiders.). Life has really been falling back into this semi-normalcy, despite Momma A's bald head and tubies and clinic visits. We were eating family meals, going on errands, and having a great time playing with Little A. But it was a pretend normalcy

Because now I'm back in the Big House, getting chemo Round 2. I'm back in the land of Cletus the IV, cavalcade of medicine, late night nurse visits, poking and prodding, and napalm mouthwash. Good times peeps. And of course, a bone marrow transplant is in my near future. Whoop, whoop!

Last week my bone marrow biopsy revealed refractory leukemia cells. Some of these stupid cells dared show their faces after the Zombie Warrior and her chemo arsenal steamrolled through the halls of my bone marrow. This news wasn't a huge surprise to me considering I'd already been informed that my flavor of AML is particularly aggressive and a narsty bugger at that. So instead of those slobbering, shambling Romero-esque ghouls, the Stupid Leukemia Zombie Cells inhabiting my marrow are more like the psychotic infected from 28 Days Later or Zack Snyder's swiftly moving undead. These are tough buggers, and Zombie Warrior's going to need a more powerful set of weapons, and that's why I am here. Of course, arming her to the teeth may cause some further collateral damage to my body; give a gal a flame thrower, and she's bound to scorch the walls something fierce.

Keep me in your prayers as I take on this new, more intense round of chemo. The poisons are being pumped in for five days. If I don't react poorly (meaning no fevers or insane side effects) to the chemo, I might be released on parole after the chemo treatments ends. That's our prayer goal now: That Zombie Warrior cleans up these vicious leukemia ghouls and that she doesn't completely trash my body in the process.

Yeah and my new attending doctor is a jackass. An old fart doctor who cracked a joked about how I "looked good now but just wait until after they'd finished with me." Yeah, who's been complaining about Dr. CrotchedyPants?

Did anyone else notice Aaron had a White Rabbit poster on his bedroom door on tonight's Lost season finale?

Spam sales are up 7%.

Finally, according to the US Postal Service, come December, I no longer live in Richmond, but Henrico. Curiouser.

Off to catch my fleeting Big House zzzzzzz's.

Holiday. Celebration. Come together in every nation.

2008-05-27T21:34:00.007-04:00

(No medical updates today, peeps. I had a great holiday weekend with the fam and want to focus on that. The news from Friday wasn't devastating, nor was it ohmygoshyouaremiraculouslycured. More details tomorrow.)

My holiday weekend started on Thursday. The Mister and I threw caution (and my neutropenic state) to the wind and took in a flick. The flick. Iron Man, baby. In honor of my fabulously supportive 'jibans, I donned my "Pajiba Bus(ted) Tour 2008" t-shirt, as well as my Jolly Roger do-rag over my bald head especially for the big event: The first real movie post Big House. It was as if the whole Pajiba crew was there to cheer and celebrate as I crammed my mouth full of movie popcorn and dark chocolate Raisinets.

Man, that movie was something else. It was in many ways the perfect comic book movie. Just enough back story and character development to make Tony Stark believable, but not waste vital screen time. Action sequences were kickin' but not overly long. Actors put in smooth, professional performances. And I laughed out loud more than a few times. I'm just delighted to have been able to see it on the big screen.

Plus, the trailer for The Incredible Hulk was intriguing. I think I might want to see this one. Who can pass up Ed Norton AND Tim Roth?

Saturday, Clan Amos headed over to the king of bog box toy stores, Toys-R-Us, on a mission to acquire some outdoor play equipment for Little A. The set we ended up with is perfect for our crazy toddler man. It's got a ladder, a slide, two walls with climbing hand holds, a cave, and... a steering wheel, the feature that ultimately sold us on this particular model. My little racer does love to drive. After his first few minutes on his new playground, Alastair announced, "This playground is neat."

During the time I was in The Big House, Alastair has totally moved out of babydom into little boyhood. Watching him play and listening to the things that come out of his mouth, I've realized how much he's grown in such a short time.

Adrian has taught him to exclaim, "Punk rock!" (which he sometimes gets mixed up and calls out "Punk up!" instead.), as well as to command someone to "Throw the goat!"

Tonight at dinner Adrian asked him where the million dollars was, and he replied, "Upstairs in bed sleeping." I explain that probably wasn't a wise investment of funds.

We have also established that "narcolepsy" is a magic word that sends Daddy to the ground with some voracious fake snoring.

Sunday, I enjoyed my favorite mom-shared pastime, shopping and spent most of the time digging through the Anthropologie clearance room. Hey, were I independently wealthly, I would be outfitted exclusively in their high-priced quirk.

Yesterday was full of outside playtime (resulting in some butt whooping allergy symptoms today), Indy car racing, and ice cream. I actually watched the entire race with The Mister, particularly enjoying Danica Patrick's minor hissy fit when a fender bender in the pits pulled her prematurely out of the race.

Listen to me. I sound like a freakin' race fan. Shivers.

Finally, I cannot express how excited I am to have So You Think You Can Dance back on television.

Mixed Nuts With a Seasoning of Marrow

2008-05-21T20:49:00.006-04:00

Tonight I've been gimping about my house like a geriatric hip replacement patient. Now I can fully appreciate having gone through my four previous bone marrow biopsies in The Big House where I could laze about in bed and oxycodone was on tap. The biopsy went well; the doc performing it was actually a hemo-oncologist fellow and the pathologist observed and assisted. That's the double edged sword of being treated at a teaching hospital; there are lots of fresh minds on your case, but you are also something of a guinea pig. The fellow performed the biopsy fine, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that he was seriously digging for treasure in my pelvic bone. Plus he reiterated the findings of the two previous pathologists who did my other biopsies: I have bones of stone.

The biopsy results will be ready for my appointment on Friday. Here's hoping for good news.

Speaking of good news, my white counts are up. Other counts are holding firm. Of course, I forgot to ask whether or not this takes me out of neutropenic precautionary zone. A viewing of Iron Man is still in my near future, even if I have to wear my sexy mask and cover the seat in a surgical drape.

Other random news from down Amos Way:

My relationship with Little A has been firmly (and perhaps even stronger than before) reestablished. Yesterday, for the first time since my being home, he called specifically for "Mommy" after his nap. We spend lots of time snuggling and hugging and wrestling, and actually, he's gotten pretty lovey and cuddly lately. It's awesome.

He has also become obsessed with watching the online trailers for both Kung Fu Panda and Wall*E. Based on release dates, it looks like Clan Amos will have to betray their fierce Pixar loyalties and introduce Little A to the movie theater experience with a Dreamworks flick. Oh well. He'll love them both, of that I am certain. He can already sing the first few bars of "Kung Fu Fighting" complete with the "da da da da duh duh duh" part and can identify both Wall*E and his robotic girlfriend Eve.

I can't believe I've not posted this sooner, but my West Coast blogger buddy Girl With the Curious Hair is working with Team in Training, raising funds and preparing to run a half marathon in my honor this October. Mosey on over to her fundraising page and toss her some coin. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society does some awesome work for folks like me and their families, acting as a support system and an advocate for people who are battling blood cancers. Hopefully, this time next year I will have successfully kicked leukemia's butt and will be training for my own race.

Speaking of events in my honor, the blood drive was apparently a success. Forty-four people showed up to donate, and thirty-eight were able. I only wish I could have been there to personally thank every single donor or potential donor. That's thirty-eight lives saved. Kick Ass.

It appears that the esteemed Senator Teddy Kennedy and I are rowing in the same boat. I'd love to send him a card saying welcome to The Cancer and just suck it up because you've had a long life, outliving your more esteemed brothers, and even managing to dodge that whole Chappaquiddick business.

What the hell was up with the House season finale? Could it be any more Debbie Downer? And why did it have to air on the same day I get a rotten prognosis concerning my particularly nasty brand of Stupid Zombie Leukemia? And my anniversary? Jeezie-peezie people. Way to stick it in and break it off.

I really need to post a baldness picture soon because I am very proud of my naked skull. It's quite lovely.

A New Normal

2008-05-19T14:33:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago whilst visiting, my uncle used the term "a new normal" to describe life when you have a serious disease. Life changes drastically, almost overnight, but then that change becomes the routine of your existence. You have to adjust, sometimes continuously, as this new normal takes over the day-to-day. So not only am I having to relearn parts of my old routine here at home with Little A, but also integrate my new practices like daily saline flushes of my Hickman line and psychotic hand washing . I'm also learning to become more flexible with my schedule and my notions about my own health.

Since being home, I've felt pretty good. I tire a lot quicker, and my allergies went into hyper-drive for a few days, but other than that I've been feeling moderately healthy. My blood work, on the other hand, tells a different story. I had a blood draw today, and my white counts have stayed the same since last week, hemoglobin is down a little, and platelets are down. The doc (known now as my Parole Officer) is concerned yet again at my slow rate of recovery. So he's moved up the bone marrow biopsy (Number five!) that was scheduled for Friday to Wednesday; the White Coat Folks need it to determine what the heck is going down in my marrow. Are the Oompa-Loompa's just on an extended smoke break and need to get back to work making my cells? Or have the Stupid Zombie Leukemia Cells reinfested? Only the biopsy will tell.

Either way, my furlough is going to be cut short for another stint in The Big House. I'll be getting more chemo, but what kind depends on the results of the biopsy. So I'm looking at another couple of weeks behind bars. And sooner than I anticipated. Apparently I misheard my doctor and thought his "three weeks" meant three weeks from this week. Nope. He meant three weeks from my initial release from the hospital. Dammit.

All this schedule shifting means child care plans have all been thrown higgedly-piggedly. I now have to find someone to watch Little A and someone to give me a ride to and from the hospital (Since they give me the goofy juice for a biopsy, driving is not recommended.). Plus, someone needs to watch Little A while I make my triumphant return to Dancing With Chemo as my mother has to finish out the school year.

Watch as Manda beats her head against the wall.

On top of all this schedule shifting nonsense, I get the additional word that my genetics don't look promising. Apparently on one of my cell lines, I am missing a chromosome at chromosome 7. From what my Parole Officer tells me, this indicates a fairly aggressive form of leukemia (Sweet! Awesome!) which is generally treated with a bone marrow transplant (Rad!). And at that point, all I've got going for me is my youth and the grace of God to get me through to the other side.

Looks like when I wandered off the highway and my RV broke down in LeukemiaTown, I ended up in the slums with a pissed off Denis Leary hunting me down. I ain't got no map, and it's a long way to the border. And Cuba Gooding Jr.'s having a hysterionic fit.

Oh and today is my anniversary. Here's to eight great years! Best husband ever!

Where the Deer and the Antelope Play

2008-05-13T20:25:00.005-04:00

Yes, indeed, I am home.

And home has worn me out. My house feels a little like a foreign land. The formerly natural daily routine has become awkward, like I've been thrust into a square dancing competition. My legs are sore from, I kid you not, walking up the stairs in my house. It's the most walking I've done in weeks. But I can tell you that it's a whole heck of a lot better than the heart palpitations that plagued me months ago whenever I went up the stairs.

Last night, I found it difficult to sleep in my own bed. I struggled for ages to get settled in what used to be a comfortable bed. I spend a month sleeping on a plastic encased mattress and pillows, with bed rails on either side, and no matter how much I lowered the dang thing, always on a slight incline. I was woke several times during the night by nurses to poke and prod me. Finally, I get home to my own quiet, darkened, comfy bedroom, and I turn into a freakin' insomniac. Then I woke at 4:30 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Awesome.

So, this whole transition to life on furlough is going to take some time. Reestablishing my relationship with Little A seems to be turning into a process as well. There was a bit of a meltdown at breakfast this morning that depressed me, but by the end of the day we were frolicking in an empty box and imitating Dancing With the Stars. But I have to admit that it's mighty depressing when your toddler with whom you spent most waking hours is suddenly intrepid around you.

I go for my follow-up visit tomorrow morning. Before I left yesterday, the lab results were still inconclusive on my final neutrophil count. As a result, I am still on neutropenic precautions: no fresh fruits, flowers, plants, or veggies; strict hand washing; avoid public places where exposure to germs could be high. This is mildly frustrating since returning home and seeing all the blooming life in my yard and subsequently dying to get my hands in the earth and do some gardening. Plus, there's this little movie called Iron Man I'd like to catch. Here's to hoping that tomorrow's blood draw reveals a decent count that would allow me to get back more of my normal life and allow me to eat a freakin' apple.

Geez people. Give a girl a break.

In my last few days of incarceration, I added yet another book to my list, the hardcover Marvel Zombies, bringing my total tomes consumed to 15. Need some recommended summer reading?
For the next few days I'll be trying to ease back into my old routine and life around the house, unpacking my stuff (I swear it's like moving home from your college dorm room. I've practically got a whole new library which only contributes to my existing, ahem, problem with books.), and getting a small posse of sellables together for my church's yard sale Saturday. All this while I'm still trying to heal and my marrow attempts to get with the program of making my blood.

Overly ambitious? Or just me?

Glad to be back, folks. Stick with me; I guarantee this won't be my last medical adventure.

Happy Mother's Day

2008-05-11T22:16:00.004-04:00

Good news for Mother's Day. They are finally booting my butt out of The Big House. As long as my neutrophil count climbs up past 5oo (It was 400 this morning.) and no fevers, I'll be going home.

So, dear readers, the next post I write will hopefully be from the comfort of my own PC.

This is crazy good news, but it really hasn't sunk in yet. Maybe it's the hospital "fake twenty" phenomenon that has desensitized me. Maybe it's the slight fear I have of leaving the safety of the hospital where my blood's checked daily and a team of doctors review my health and well-being. With this sneaky old leukemia possibly lurking about, I feel more protected cocooned in my hospital room and surrounded by The White Coat Folks and the awesome nurses.

My home feels as far away as the moon. The concept of sleeping in my own bed, eating my own food, spending time with Little A and The Mister is beyond my imagination's reach right now.

But holy junk, I can't wait. Dorothy had it right; there's NO place like home.

All of my wonderful readers, friends, family, and fellow Pajibians have made my stay here in The Big House more than tolerable. You wonderful people lifted my spirits and reinforced my strength to help me get through the boring days as well as the rough days. My gratitude for the visits, cards, gifts, phone calls, e-mails, blog comments, prayers, and well wishes is immeasurable. Truly, my cup overflows.

Even though I'll be getting out of the hospital soon, please don't stop reading my blatherings. I have a feeling I'm not quite out of LeukemiaTown yet, so I'd love it if everyone stayed with me until I pass through the city limits and onto healthy horizons.

Well, the painkillers the nurse gave me to help combat my earache are starting to catch up with me (Typical, the day before I leave the hospital, I have sinus trouble resulting in narsty ear pain.), and I need to get my sleep before the big move out day.

Man, I'm going to miss cable television.

Quiet Days

2008-05-09T12:12:00.006-04:00

Now that I am off the antibiotics, I get less attention from the nursing staff here. But that's not to say that they don't like coming and hanging out with me. A large percentage of the nursing staff is close to my age or younger, and I guess that's why they like taking a little break from their daily patient workload to come chat and chill in the nutty bald gal's room.

Yesterday, my nurse told me I was the healthiest leukemia patient they had on the floor. If only my bone marrow would get that message and start doing it's dang job. Dang it.

My days have been pretty quiet as of late. This morning I organized my library of books, CDs, and DVDs. Because of the great generosity of friends and readers, I still have quite a stack of unread books. I thought I'd catalog the various titles I've read since my incarceration in the Big House. Here they are, in no particular order, what I've read in the past month (And don't be insulted if the book you gifted/lent me hasn't made the list. I go with what my mood and brain are itching to read at that moment, but trust me, every book will be consumed in good time.):

Hell House by Richard Matheson

20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill

How Sassy Changed My Life by Kara Jesella and Marisa Meltzer

Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky

A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

Blackgas by Warren Ellis (disturbed the bejeebers out of me)

Heroes, Vol. 1 graphic novel

Duma Key by Stephen King

Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories

Soul Kitchen by Poppy Z. Brite

The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde

Twelve books. Considering I've been here a month, that works out to about three books a week. Not too shabby. This isn't counting the fact that I've read my body weight in magazines, nor the daily little nibbles I take from various devotional books. I'm in the process of reading More Jesus, Less Religion by Stephen Arterburn. And I've watched a fair share of movies and I'm almost through the first season of Arrested Development (then on to tackle season one of Veronica Mars).

My next book was sent to me from my great Yankee girlfriend, Maureen, who also sent me Bunny Suicides. I'll next be cracking open G. K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday. Whatever comes out of my stay here in the Big House, at least I can say I'm well-read.

What the heck was up with Lost last night? Could they cram more stuff into one episode? It was like one of those food brick burritos from Chipotle. The back story and plot twists were just oozing out all over the place like sour cream and guacamole.

And just in time for Mother's Day, there's this insanity. Holy junk, lady. Give your poor uterus a rest.

Finally, an experience that one would only have in the Big House: I woke this morning to find a blood-filled syringe lying next to my thigh. Not a cause for alarm but weird nonetheless. Man, I love it here.

Life in the Slow Lane

2008-05-08T09:05:00.003-04:00

The results from my biopsy came in, and there's no bad news. No signs of leukemia present in my marrow, thank God. However, there's really no good news, either. Apparently, there's not much else going on in my marrow, and it should be cranking out the white blood cells right now. The White Coat Folks are concerned as I am young and should be bouncing back at a more accelerated rate. Right now my recovery is taking a slower than average pace. My main attending doc said he's confident my white count will come up; it's just a matter of time.

My poor bone marrow has really taken a beating. First there's the invasion of the Stupid Leukemic Zombie Cells that crowded out and devoured all the normal healthy cells. Then we send in Zombie Warrior with her arsenal of chemo weaponry. She plowed through the halls of my marrow leaving a wake of gore and shell casings. The zombie cells were annihilated, but somewhat at the expense of my bullet hole-riddled marrow.

The latest and greatest news from The White Coat Folks is that they may take me off of the antibiotic I've been receiving every six hours through my IV, Cletus. Apparently, some medicines and antibiotics actually can suppress white count production. The docs are hoping that perhaps this is the answer to my pokey white blood cell production, and by pulling me off the antibiotic, we might be able to get this show on the road.

So there we are. More waiting. More frustration. Thank the Good Lord for all my readers and Pajibans who have been gifting me with books and entertainment. It chases away the boredom, fo' sho'.

Blood Drive in my honor to be held Thursday, May 15 from 3-7 pm!

For those of you in the RVA area, a blood drive is being held next Thursday at Dumbarton Elementary School, located at 9000 Hungary Spring Rd. in the West End (near Hermitage High School). The drive was organized by the staff at the school, which is also the school where my mother works. They are holding the drive in my honor because we all know what a freakin' vampire I've been since moving to LeukemiaTown, scarfing down blood transfusions.

If you are interested in participating in the drive, please let me know, so we can contact the school with a rough estimate of donors (It helps the Virginia Blood Service staff for the drive.). Please feel free to pass the word about the drive to anyone you think would be interested. If you've never given blood, I encourage you to consider it. Maybe the process is a little uncomfortable, but you just don't know how valuable these donations are to those of us who need them.

I leave you with a tip on Life in The Big House: Avoid cooking shows, like Top Chef. I was practically slobbering all over myself watching last night's episode. Even though in real life, I'd never have eaten beef brisket or Chilean sea bass.

A Bit of Parole and More Pelvic Drilling

2008-05-07T09:01:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was bone marrow biopsy number four. My docs are hoping this biopsy will give them a better picture as to why my white counts are on the slow boat to China, as well as check the status of my marrow in general. Worst case scenario: They find that the stupid leukemic cells are still hanging about, and I'd be up for chemo round two.

I won't know results until later today or tomorrow. This uncertainty has been weighing pretty heavily on my heart. I've prayed a lot about it over the past day, but I'm human and unfortunately worry seems to be part of my genetic code. Can't seem to shake the stink of doubt and pessimism off of me.

More than anything, the prayers and thoughts of others have buoyed me through some of the darker portions of the past month. So I am calling in my troops to do what you guys have been doing tremendously well for me and that is all sending up those prayers and healing, positive thoughts and vibes.

I've been working on my healing imagery, and y'all sent me some pretty good ideas. I decided to go with the Willy Wonka candy factory pumping out white blood cells on a conveyor belt that slide into a big copper funnel and into my blood stream. I liked the Krispy Kreme idea, but thinking too much about doughnuts only made me hungry for one. I'm trying to get better not get fat.

Also yesterday, my wardens let me take a stroll outside the building (with mask on, of course) with my parents and Little A. It was a perfect day to be outside: sunny, in the seventies, light breeze. We went to the nearby Healing Garden, a gorgeous explosion of flora and fountains and sculpture in a little walled garden overlooking the hum of I-95. Little A had a great time dashing about the plants, getting his hand wet in a fountain, and then getting his head stuck in the metal gate (quickly remedied but not without tears). For the first time in I don't know when, I got to carry him around. The feel of his little arm around my neck was pure heaven. We stood and looked out over the highway traffic and called out what kind of vehicles whizzed by. Little A was particularly excited about a caravan of school buses and a TANKER TRUCK (his emphasis). Hopefully this afternoon, Adrian and I will be able to take a trip to the Healing Garden for more fresh air and sunshine on my skin.

This is the roller coaster of LeukemiaTown. Sunshine and biopsies.

Now I sit and wait, as I have for at least a week now. Only this time I'm doing a bit of the hand-wringing in anticipation of the news to come. That dark, negative part of my gut instinct tells me that not only will I be stuck in the Big House for Mother's Day, but in all likelihood, my anniversary as well.

Nuts.

Oh and in other news, for those of you in the RVA area, there is a blood drive in my honor to be held at Dumbarton Elementary School on Thursday, May 15 from 3-7. More on that to come.

The Waiting Game

2008-05-04T21:11:00.004-04:00

Remember the scene in Beetlejuice in Juno's waiting room? Where the dead people wait for an eternity? Yeah, that's me. Instead of waiting to see a lady who exhales smoke through the slit in her throat, I am waiting for my white blood cells to increase. By all accounts, I feel fine; no fevers for several days, my cold and cough are almost gone, and my rash is all but cleared up. Unfortunately, my blood tells another story. While my platelets are up to a normal level and my hemoglobin is slowly increasing, my white blood count is bobbling. Last week, the white blood count shot up pretty quickly. Now, the counts have plateaued and even dipped a few tenths.

Bollocks.

However, the blast cells that had everybody all worked into a lather earlier, continue to decrease in number in my blood. So I guess that's good.

The docs are watching my numbers like hawks, trying to decide whether or not another biopsy is necessary. Personally, I think they are all sadists who just want to torture my poor pelvic bone.

So I need to motivate my pokey bone marrow to start cranking out the white blood cells, double-time. My dear readers came up with some great mental images to help me envision the chemo crushing the stupid leukemia cells. Now I need something to visualize so I can compel the creation of white blood cells. I've been wracking my brain to come up with something good but with no avail. Wonder why it's so easy to envision destruction but not creation? Any ideas out there?

Tomorrow, I'm shaving my head. My hair's thinned out pretty considerably. I'm borderline mangy. Plus, I'm just sick of seeing my hair everywhere: covering my pillow in the morning, inside my shirt, all over the floor. I can sympathize with my poor shedding kitty cats. Every time I touch or move my head, a sprinkling of hairs comes raining down. Ick. I am ready to be done with my hair. I just hope my bald head isn't too weird or lumpy.

Today, I discovered the turkey salad sandwich here isn't too bad, meaning I can eat it without making a face.

Fool Me Twice-With Tasty Update!

2008-05-01T18:50:00.006-04:00

More Big House fake twenty-dollar-bill tricks have been played on Manda today (And yes, Karen, I am totally referring to your husband.), except this time the fake bill snatched from my grasp was the possibility of going home.

Instead my Folger's Crystals has been replaced with a definite bone marrow biopsy tomorrow and the very strong possibility of a second round of chemo to follow, starting next week. Which in turn would mean another two or three weeks of solitary confinement in the Big House.

Junk.

Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk.

What prompted this complete 180? Seems the pathologist took a look at my blood smear yesterday and was concerned about the higher than normal percentage of blast cells. This could be a strong indicator that the leukemia wasn't completely wiped out by the first round of chemo. They'll have a better indication by Monday whether that it true, but from the way my doc was talking, she seemed to think it was a strong possibility that I'd be up for round two of poison.

About this, I am less than thrilled. I guess knowing nothing going into the first time helped keep me in relatively good spirits. Even though my side effects were manageable, I don't relish going through another week of fevers. Plus, I am concerned about the effect all this poison's having on my internal organs and the possibility that my second go-round of side effects would be worse.

My dad tried to be optimistic and said that, if the leukemia wasn't cleared out, at least they caught it earlier rather than in a few weeks when things would have gotten worse. But right now I can only think about is jumping back on that carousel from Hell of constant IV hook-up, no showers for days, feeling like ass, Napalm mouthwash, and the thought that this is all a really bad omen of things to come in LeukemiaTown.

I can't help but be gripped by nasty foreboding. What if I have the weird, rare, hard-to-cure kind of leukemia? What if I have to do the whole bone marrow transplant deal? What if it doesn't work?

Good thing tonight's an awesome night of television with The Office, 30 Rock, and a brand spanking new Lost. Escapism is a wonderful distraction.

A last note: Thanks to reader and fellow Pajibian dammitjanet for sending me one of the inaugural Pajiba t-shirts. I'll be sending it home to be washed (My sensitive skin demands it.), and I'll proudly wear it as I release Zombie Warrior on her second mission.

Update: So all the prayers and good thoughts I've been soliciting came through. No biopsy today. Appears that the pathologist took a look at three days worth of blood smears and saw that the disconcerting cells from one day actually diminished in percentage each following day. This indicated that the mystery cells were more than likely not affliated with leukemia (otherwise they would have been increasing) and therefore no cause for alarm. I'm going to double check this with my doc, but I think she referred to them as reactionary leukocytes. As long as these percentages don't start climbing and stay at a high level, I should be fine.

So we've gone back a few squares and are now just watching my counts and waiting. I'm not out of the water yet, as the past few days have taught me. But at least I'm not getting poked today.

Get me off this ride; I think I'm going to be sick.

Gotcha!

2008-05-01T08:24:00.003-04:00

Yesterday evening, my doc came in to tell me that plans have changed. The leukemia specialist with whom she consulted trusts the job Zombie Warrior has done on the Stupid Leukemic Zombie Cells and wasn't overly concerned about performing a repeat bone marrow biopsy in the very near future. He thought that waiting a week or two and performing a biopsy in the clinic as an outpatient thing would be more effective.

So biopsy number four is off the table for the immediate future. My pelvic bone heaved a sigh of relief with this news.

This is so typical of the way the Big House operates. Reminds me a little of this fake folded twenty-dollar-bill I guy I know used to have. It was attached to a fishing line. He would lay the bill on a sidewalk and sit near by, waiting for someone to notice it. As soon as some poor schmuck would bend down to pick up what he thought was an unexpected windfall, my friend would give the fishing line a tug and the bill would go flying. Except in this case, I don't mind that the bill got whisked away from me. Lord knows, I wasn't exactly awaiting another drilling into my bone with baited breath.

My doctor also gave me some hopeful news. I am on track to go home. As long as my counts continue to rise, there is the potential of my release from the Big House in a few days. The goal for release is a neutrophil count of at least .500 which would get me out of the neutropenic level. This morning my doc didn't have a count for me but yesterday I was around .121.

Folks, we have a goal towards which to focus our prayers, meditations, chants, positive thoughts, etc.

.500

In other news, Adam Sandler was once on an episode of The Cosby Show. He played one of Theo's buddies who go in together to rent a limo for prom. That's about all I could get from the two minutes I watched of the show before turning it. Adam Sandler on The Cosby Show. Weird.

I think my rash might be getting a little better. Just a smidge less purple-red all over my thighs.

Strange News

2008-04-29T23:21:00.003-04:00

Bone marrow biopsy update: I'm up for biopsy number four. Yup. Apparently, the pathologist just couldn't tell whether the lurking blasts were healthy or diseased. Couldn't tell? Are my leukemia cells super ninjas or something. Sheesh.

Depending on what the leukemia specialist here recommends, I may or may not have the biopsy on Friday. Super.

Amazingly, the doc also delivered some potentially good news. If my counts continue to improve at the same rate they have been, I may be going home soon, possibly the same day as my biopsy. But somehow, with this uncertainty about my chemo's success and yet another biopsy looming, I can't help but be guarded about my happiness.

Someone tell me that Dodge really isn't using an instrumental version of Weezer's "Sweater" to pimp some new vehicle. 'Cause darned if that isn't what the music sounds like.

Yesterday, I whacked off my hair in a little shortie pixie 'do. Previously, I had sported a sorta reverse bob (Yeah, me and Posh!), and lately, me and the hair were quickly parting ways. I figured cutting it short would ease the transition to shaving myself bald. My hairdresser (and my neighbor and my friend) did a great job; I can style it so it looks less sparse.

The rash has spread over my entire body and in some places, gotten worse in color and appearance. I look like some bad sci-fi monster. The docs say the rash will probably last at least a week. So awesome. With my soon to be bald head, I'm going to look like the survivor of some sort of chemical accident.

Man, it just keeps getting better down here in LeukemiaTown.

Sorta Kinda Good News

2008-04-25T15:50:00.006-04:00

I had this nice long post all written out Friday afternoon. Then there was a misunderstanding apparently between WiFi and Blogger; my whole post vanished. Frustrated, I scrapped writing until later. The weekend was busy with visiting old friends and feeling alternately good and crappy. Lots of napping. And I never got around to revisiting the interwebs until now.

Here's the short news about my biopsy: The marrow was mostly free of blast cells. What few blast cells they did see, they were unable to identify. These cells could either be young new cells or the few remaining Stupid Leukemic Cells that apparently managed to avoid detection by the Zombie Warrior.

Monday afternoon, more definitive information about the cells will be available. If the cells are the old diseased ones, the prevailing assumption is that the chemo is taking a little longer to finish the job. Another bone marrow biopsy would be in my near future (YEAH! My pelvic bone will be swiss cheese.) to see if those cells finally get wiped out.

There we are.

Today, I've had a new fun development here in LeukemiaTown. My doctor switched up one of my antibiotics on Friday. Apparently, I'm allergic to this antibiotic. My arms, torso, and thighs are covered in a bright red rash. My face is as red as a strawberry and feels like it's sunburned. There's a weird metallic taste in my mouth.

Yeah, life is good. Whoop. Whoop.

Finally, if anyone wants to add me to a healing ritual or prayer service, go right ahead. I need all the help I can get.

Day Thirteen: I'm Clean

2008-04-24T15:01:00.004-04:00

Last night, I took my first real shower in, oh, I don't even know when. In order to be able to shower, I have to cover my Hickman line with a big patch made from Saran Wrap and medical tape. It's definitely a skill I am going to have to finesse and work on since I'll be going home with "my tubies" and will keep them in for an indefinite amount of time. Adrian helped me slap together my patch this first time, but I'm going to have to start figuring out a system of my own. Adrian also helped me wash my hair and scrub my back and yeah, it was just that sexy. Because folks, when your skin has had days to stew in its own oils, it's not pretty. Downright leperous. All red, spotchy, zitty, flaky. Yum.

I've spending a lot less time connected to my old friend Cletus, the IV stand. I tend to get antibiotic a few times a day and maybe a transfusion. When these aren't happening, my nurse unhooks me and I'm home free. After spending almost two weeks constantly wired up, it's a strange sensation to be able to hop up and dash to the potty without dragging a mechanized hatrack behind you. I am reminded of Morgan Freeman at the end of Shawshank Redemption, physically needing to ask for permission to go pee even after leaving the prison walls.

Today is my second fever free day. There's been something vaguely unsettling about my post-chemo side effects. The way it was originally explained to me, chemotherapy was akin to surviving Hiroshima. So imagine how pleasantly surprising it's been that so far my worst side effects have been fever and a generally icky feeling. But there's a part of me that wonders, "What if the chemo's not working? What if my body's rejecting it? What if my cancer's a super-duper tough strain?" Then of course, I have to tell myself to shut the hell up.

What I envision these last few days of reduced symptoms has meant is that Zombie Warrior's just making her last few passes through the corpse-laden building she is trying to liberate. She stops every once and a while to dispatch a lingering zombie, maybe one trapped under the remains of its undead comrades that she takes out with one shot to his forehead with her boot planted firmly over his snapping jaws. Or maybe the one stuck in a stairwell, bumping aimlessly into the walls; she'd kick open the door, fire off a round, maybe two, and then be on her way to the next floor. She's relying on her pistol mostly, with a free hand close to her machete. Occaisionally, a civilian dashes by, and she steadies herself as she's learned after too many mistakes. There aren't that many zombies left in the building, but she's not going to stop shooting until she knows for sure the halls are free of the Stupid Leukemic Undead.

Now, how does one progress with the clean up of a formerlly zombie infested building? A skid steer with a bulldozer attachment and a bonfire?

This morning I dreamt about being at the beach with my friends, getting hot dogs and fries at the DQ. Immediately upon waking, I began to fret about the combination of "the tubies" and bathing suits.

Tomorrow is the much anticipated bone marrow biopsy to determine how effectively Zombie Warrior has vanquished the Stupid Leukemic Zombie Cells from my body. It's a pretty darn big deal. The elders from my church are coming to pray over me and anoint me with oil. And no, it's not as cultish as it sounds.

I need all the prayers I can get right now.

Day Twelve: Yesterday Was My Birthday

2008-04-23T13:12:00.007-04:00

I'm pretty sure my 33rd birthday trumps my 12th birthday (I got the chicken pox.) in out right suckitude. Ah well, what are you going to do?

Everyone made a great effort to ensure my day was a fun as it could be considering I'm stuck in the hospital recovering from chemotherapy treatments for my frakkin' leukemia. (Can I just say here that, until recently, I always associated leukemia with lil bald-headed children on their Make-A-Wish trip to DisneyWorld? What about adults? Can't I get a sympathy trip to the South of France?) My mom came down and decorated my room with banners and such. Little A sang his version of "Happy Birthday" to me twice, once with extra dancing on the side. Adrian organized a small posse of local friends to descend on my room, filling to capacity, to join me for the resplendent, sugary goodness of Ukrop's birthday cake. I got lots of phone calls and well wishes from friends near and far. I felt loved.

And I ran a fever almost the whole stinking day. Nuts. I did blame the cake for a particularly nasty spike up to 102 in the late afternoon.

And Adrian felt unwell the whole day also, making our hope for a little date night dashed. He spent my entire mini-party with a mask on so as to not infect me, which I know was disappointing to him.

So far, I've been fever-free today (touch wood), and hope to continue to be so. I got some platelets this morning and am getting a transfusion of blood as a I type. Hopefully the platelets will help with my bloody snot issue, which continues to be a problem. Other than that, it's business as usual here in LeukemiaTown; a slow meandering process of wait-and-see prognosis while I make every effort not to dwell on the fact that this disease could haunt me for a long, bloody time and eventually kick my ass. Fun time, let me tell you.

There's a mystery afoot in either the room above or next me. All hours of the day and night (and early morning) furniture is moved around at thunderous levels of scraping and screeching. Because I cannot determine the exact source of the noise, it's debatable if banging on my neighbor's door and shouting, "Dude, what the HELL?" would be a worthwhile venture.

Food and Nutrition continues their campaign to beat my leukemia via margarine.

Word of advice: Never read an Anthony Bourdain book while in the hospital confined to anemic, overcooked hospital food. It's monumentally depressing. The man is such a great food writer his description of haggis makes it sound like a divine delicacy worthy of the finest four star restaurant.

Before I go I want to share this story about Good Morning America co-host Robin Roberts who lost her hair to chemo treatments and recently decided to doff her wig permanently when appearing on television. The clip hit home for me; Roberts' decision is commendable and goes along way to normalizing women who are undergoing chemo. While my hair's not gone yet, when it goes I don't think I'll go the route of naturalistic wigs. Shoot, who will I be trying to fool with fake hair? I don't care enough what people think of me normally, why should I now? Besides, it's going to be summer soon in the RVA, and the last thing I want suffocating my sweaty head is a tight, itchy wig.

One of my favorite quotes from the clip in the story is that the wig is "for everyone else's comfort." And ya'll know how much I give a rip about how comfortable the general population is. Kiss my soon-to-be bald, pink skull, jackasses.