RETURN OF THE "RED-I"

We’re baaaack. And I must admit I still have jet lag. Of course, I started our vacation with jet lag, and that was days before I boarded the jet! Our family spent a week at maximum speed with minimum drag, and it all resulted in perpetual lag. But the Clot was able to do something that seemed like a dream just a few weeks ago.

Erin and Brodi always accuse me of excessive verbiage, but they don’t appreciate the fact that what they read is the edited version of what I actually write. However, in an attempt to achieve brevity and blog responsibly, I will give an up-date of our “California Dreamin’” trip in an initial installment followed by 2 sequels. So here goes.

Dennis has been tolerating his chemo treatments so well, that our flight to Disneyland was never in jeopardy. This was such a relief, but we were still concerned about his strength and stamina. We were determined that we would have a good time, but not compromise his health in any way. So we devised a “park-hopper” plan that consisted mainly of going on a ride, and then hopping over to the nearest bench to rest. This seemed reasonable for the first five minutes. Something had charged his batteries, and he not only maintained the pace, but set it. Now this was rather remarkable because there was an even dozen of us, six of whom were children. There was a collective energy source that could have fueled the world. I kept insisting that he rest at somewhat regular intervals…mainly so I could recover my equilibrium and avoid resorting to my secret reserve of emergency digitalis. We were at sea level, and I was sucking wind like I was about to summit Mount Everest.

We had three passes to Disneyland, and the first day there I have no doubt we set a new endurance record for riding the most rides in the shortest amount of time. Brodi negotiated our way through the park that would have made Lewis and Clark proud. She has a particular genius for fast passes, which allowed us to access any ride with such efficiency, that we rarely had to wait at all. (That, and the fact there was a certain deference that was accorded to a man wearing a protective surgical face mask. We were just glad Dennis wasn’t mistaken for a character out of the latest Disney movie.)

But I discovered an irrefutable fact of fantasy…you actually can have “Disneyland Saturation,” “giggle glut,” “merriment melt-down.” We rode on every conceivable contraption invented by the mind of man that whirled, twirled, twisted, tilted, contorted, shook, rattled, rolled and glided. But I did have to draw the line on, of all things, a children’s ride. Claiming strict observance of the Word of Wisdom in order to gain a religious deferment from riding on the whirling tea cups, I ran immediately to the nearest concession stand and ordered a “mouska-mammoth” diet coke in a futile effort to stem the rising tide of nausea. In a supreme irony so apropos to the condition of childhood, why is it that a kid can endure every mechanically perverted barf-inducing invention for nine uninterrupted hours, and then puke in the back seat of a car from motion sickness?

More to come!
Love,
The Clot

CALIFORNIA HERE WE COME!

What a difference a week makes. Dennis’ numbers are back in the black and lookin’ good. His pulse is 82, oxygen 97%, temp. 97.7, and blood pressure – 100 over 58. The doctor offered to write a prescription for medicinal potato chips to give those numbers an assist, but we decided just to stick with the salt lick for the time being. (We don’t want to get addicted to prescription chips.) He popped some lovely veins for the technicians, and they got a gusher. Hooray! But the loveliest number of the day is his weight…it’s 128, and that’s without the nose hose. Actually, he was wearing clothes and shoes, but they were skinny clothes, and getting buck naked in front of the other infusees is something Dennis shies away from. I don’t see why. His abs and his labs are really quite attractive.

Soooo…it was full cheme ahead. Dennis bellied up to the bar, pounded down the entire bag of gencitobene, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, turned his shot glass upside down on the table, and swaggered, John Wayne-style, outta the joint. What a man! Still crazy after all these years!

So, after preparing for infusion, we are preparing for Disneyland. As you are well aware, this is not just a family vacation…it is a celebration. And the Ashton Clot plans to rock California. But first, we must actually get there. Easier said than done.

I have pledged to pack light, so I made my “necessities only” list to help me resist the urge to pack the superfluous and mindless. I am committed to the neat and simple, so I can achieve the lofty goal of maintaining sanity and my gravitational center as a dozen crazed and depraved family members attempt to negotiate a theme park whose central icon is a helium-voiced rodent. Therefore, I am including a list of strictly essentials that will minimize our need for luggage and still ensure an awesomely brainless good time.

Joan’s list of essentials:

1. Make-up…enough to guarantee I don’t lower the property values of the entire state of California.
2. Eyelash curler…to curl a dozen sets of eyelashes
3. 12 hair brushes…just in case the girls forget theirs and want to borrow mine. Mathematically this factors out to one brush per family member.
4. Extra hair dryers…refer to item #3 for distorted reasoning and explanation.
5. Extra diapers…in case babies have accidents.
6. Extra Depends…in case I have accidents.
7. 8 changes of clothes…because I am heavily into excess.
8. “Do rags”…in a futile attempt to obscure clammy and sodden hair due to humidity.
9. More make-up…to make up for the “do rags.”
10. Enough snacks with absolutely no redeeming nutritive value so the grandkids all rise up and call me “the favorite.
    

Dennis’ list of essentials:

1. Toothbrush…to brush his tooth.
2. Volumizing shampoo…to volumize his hair. Hey, this stuff really works. He may not have more hair, but the two he has are definitely louder!
3. Speedo…OK, svelte has its privileges, and besides, we’ll be on a private beach. But that’s one picture I will definitely blog! So stay tuned.

Well, that ought to do it. If we don’t bring something we need, we rely on our motto: “When we forgot it, we bought it.”

I actually dread the whole process of traveling by plane. We’ve had some rather singular experiences with the security protocol in airports, and it’s made for some recollections that even in hindsight stretch credulity.

This really happened when we were returning from Hawaii. As I successfully emerged from the metal detector, a security lady who had x-rayed my carry-on had managed to locate something that looked suspicious and sinister. She asked me to identify it. I said, “It’s an eyelash curler.” End of incident? No, indeed. She seemed unable to comprehend, so I felt compelled to further enlighten her, and said “…to curl eyelashes.” She seemed like a member emeritus of the chronically confused, and asked me what that little tube directly adjacent to the curler was. I correctly identified it as…mascara. (I kept looking around for hidden cameras that would suggest I was on “America’s Funniest Videos”)

The woman then announced she was going to have to confiscate these items. I was incredulous, which in itself is incredulous, because I’m a mother…I’ve seen everything!

I wasn’t sure exactly what her reasoning was. Did she actually think that I was a member of some subversive terrorist organization, whose diabolical plan to take over the world somehow centered on my cosmetic bag? Did she suspect I would rush the cockpit, get a chokehold on the pilot, insert his eyelashes in the crimper, and threaten to curl his lid hairs till he pleaded for mercy, turned the plane around, and flew me to Tooele? And then, just to make sure he knew I meant business, I was prepared to apply two coats of mascara? Now, I do admit there is a certain terrorist element to the average daily beauty regime. Of course, I do confess to graduating “mascara-cum-loudly” from the Abu Graib Institute of Water Boarding and Professional Make-up Artists. OK. OK. I guess when I really think about it, the items in a cosmetic bag could also qualify as Weapons of Mass Destruction. There are even some items…like the eyelash curler…that ought to be registered as lethal weapons. But I don’t think that qualifies me as a suspicious character capable of malicious mischief…well, come to think about it, the jury’s still out on that.

Finally, the woman modified her “heightened restrictions” red alert, and allowed me to retain possession of the suspected terrorist cosmetics, but she did insist on confiscating my deep-root hair conditioner, especially designed for high-maintenance platinum blonds. I was furious, but I reluctantly relinquished custody. However, if it had been my Pureology, I would have become gladiatorial! Security be danged! We’re talkin’ ultimate catfight!

In spite of “incidents past,” we are so excited for this time-out to be together, and to squeal because of the trajectory and plunge of the rides at Disneyland. We expect it will be funner than some of the rides we’ve been on of late. Because of the generous invitation of some dear friends, we will lie on a private beach and watch the waves roll in, and spend hours removing sand from the facial orifices of the Ashton Dozen. This is all very good. Can’t wait!

Thank you for your love and prayers on our behalf. We’ll be blogging from the land of the round-eared rodents.

We love you,

The Clot

NOSE-HOSE EXPOSED: DISPOSED

BEFORE

DURING

AFTER

Good Morning, Fellow Clotters,

Well, this is truly a “red balloon” day.

Ding! Dong!

The hose is gone!

Let the joyous news be spread…

The funny old nose hose at last is shed!

For several days, now, we have been experiencing “nose-hose extraction anxiety.” So many questions have been swirling in our heads,…and they mostly center on me, which is most appropriate:

Will I still think consider him a “hottie” without the tube serpentining through his beard, around his ear, and down his nostrils? This can be very alluring, you know. It’s the “new” old adage that if you can’t pump iron, stuff nostrils! Hey, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it!

Will I feel pressure to perform in the kitchen, now that meals no longer consist of the contents in a pop-top can of formula?

Will I actually be expected to fire up the new oven in order to impress perfect strangers with spots that indicate the charred remains of a roast, potato or cookies?

Will I be able to find the man in this house without the “pushee thingee navigational system?” The old “big wheels on cement” locational device is better than any GPS.

And can I adjust to the “sounds of silence?” No more nocturnal whirring and hourly flushing of the line. Without the “security whiteout background noise,” will we be able to get any sleep at all?

Also, when the device is removed, just what will it haul up from those unplumbed depths? Lentils? An anchor? Josh’s lost magnets? Pictures of old girlfriends? (Actually, I made him eat them years ago, so I’m pretty sure they’ve already been processed and passed.) Tube removal gives new meaning to the term “out of body experience.”

There are so many things to consider as we transition away from being “umbilically bound.” He’s had drainage bags, tender timers, stents, fufu bags, PICC lines, multiple nose hoses, IV fluids, oxygen, infusions, defusions, delusions, expulsions, so many bodily intrusions it is borderline felonious assault…and flatulence!

And now he stands alone. His pushee thingee is propped in the corner, looking somewhat forlorn in its new solitude. These two have traveled in tandem so long, I almost think of them as a single entity. So…can I transition? YES! YES! YES!

NO PROBLEMO! AFFIRMATIVE, HOUSTON! ROGER THAT! Any questions?

Wednesday, we trekked to the Huntsman, hoping that Dennis’ latest numbers would permit him to receive a full infusion of the chemo. And so many of his digits were quite impressive. His weight is an incredible 125! I understand that qualifies him as a “welter-weight,” and he can now pick fights with anyone who weighs 124 or less. (I personally have discouraged him from pursuing the urge to engage in extreme cage-fighting with this new-found prowess…because I’m the only one who qualifies weight-wise…and he’s goin’ down if he even thinks about it!) He is currently taking it under advisement. However, his white blood cell count is just slightly low, and his granulocytes are a couple of foot pounds of pressure per second per second sub-par. So Dr. Jones decided to forego infusion at this time. At first, we were a little disappointed. But then we remembered that Dennis is a survivor, not a patient. (Sometimes transitioning is very hard.) So we decided to go shopping instead. We weren’t sure just what to purchase, since we already have toilets and a new stove. So we bought a whole bunch of rice gruel and some bubble gum. I don’t know why, but that seemed reasonable at the time. With a little more practice, I may finally persuade Dennis away from toilets and stoves, and over to see the new Z4. Now who’s delusional?

We just want you all to know how much small gestures of concern, help, guidance and consideration can alter certain situations. And how much we rely on others for an assist. This has been a refining and defining time for us. And we thank all who have rendered assistance during our confrontation with scary things. We share the joy of our latest news with all of you, Dear Ones.

Love,

The Clot

FRUIT FLIES, INTELLIGENCE, AND THE TREE OF LIFE

Greetings, Dear Ones,

Wednesday was a rather long day at the Huntsman. Dennis had his weekly labs drawn to determine if and how much chemo he could receive. For some reason, there was a little trouble locating a cooperative vessel (a vein in vain, so to speak), and there were several “dummy pokes” that looked promising but yielded nothing. Dennis never winced, but I was just short of moistening my tutu. However, when things looked bleakest, the nurse hit the mother lode, and was able to harvest multiple vials, which provided a lot of “Dennis information.” I won’t list every result, but the numbers were good enough to qualify him for a full bag of gemcitobene. This was very good. His blood pressure was a little low, although I think that’s par for Dennis. Apparently when they suck out the blood, they suck down the pressure simultaneously. But we have discovered that looking at recent bank statements significantly increases the level of his blood pressure, (not to mention pulse, oxygen, and white blood cell count), so I always carry an extra copy of our finances in case of emergency.

There were a couple of numbers that are particularly exciting: Dennis’ weight is 125, which prompted us to go right out and buy some larger pants to compensate for the increased body mass. And, his tumor markers are 39, which is within the range of normal. This is all very good.

We also met with Dr. Jones for an evaluation and board meeting/planning session. She had done some research on the latest studies concerning the efficacy of continued chemo, and it was decided that three more months of therapy would be a good thing. Dennis and I concur with this plan, so we racked it. Dr. Jones said we could read her copy of the latest findings of these studies, and I thought it would be a good idea if I read it over. But then she thought better of it, saying that it probably contained more information than I actually needed to know…numbers, statistics, stuff. Hmmmm. Actually, there was a certain perverted logic to Dr. Jones’ reasoning that didn’t escape my notice. I think they call it “debilitating intelligence,” and I’m not sure the perilous pursuit of knowledge is always a good thing. One can obtain so much “smarts,” that there is a point of diminishing returns. It’s the “irksome competence” syndrome (from the Latin term “smartus horribilus”) and can result in mental spasms, decreased sphincter control and loss of friends. Besides, I read an article in the paper (so you know it must be true) just the other day that cited a fruit fly experiment showing smarter is not always better. Quote: “Scientists found that flies developed to learn faster fared worse than dumber counterparts.” “If it’s so great to be smart,” Kawecki asks, “why have most animals remained dumb?” I ask myself that question all the time. And I’m not really sure that an assumption of competence is efficacious. Stupid has its privileges. Think about it. Smart has no refuge. You’re stuck with cold, hard merciless information. There is no retreat, no sanctuary. You are a candidate for information burnout. Not so for the morbidly vacuous. When you experience the misty-eyed nostalgia for the good old days of being among the criminally deluded, you can always insert your head in the sand, where it is cool and dark and quiet…and the only drawback is granules in your ears. It is wise to play to our strengths, and to keep a tight control on “knowledge glut.” There is wisdom in the technique of the “under-think.” I have been wildly successful in my efforts. In fact, last week I purchased a pair of new pink sunglasses, and everything looks sunny and rosey. Dr. Jones ran interference. Dr. Jones is very wise.

And finally, Dennis got his final nose-hose replacement. The technicians have it down to a science. They were able to switch the old one out and the new one in with efficiency that would evoke envy and respect in the Indy 5oo! When this tube shuts down, we will have it removed…and bronzed…as a trophy of his remarkable perseverance. We will jump-start his gut, and from now on, all nutrition will gain entry orally. He is working diligently on the second “hunka,” and I suspect we will soon be shopping for larger pants.

He is really morphing into a veritable “hottie!”

On the way home from a morning walk recently, I was struck by the sight of our neighbor’s tree. Every autumn, Joe (“The Chainsaw”) Checchio whacks this tree back so severely that it is borderline arbor atrocity, and the neighborhood takes bets on whether it will survive the recent surgery. And every year, without fail, it is restored to its full beauty. So I have been watching for signs of life on my daily outings. And today, sure enough, against seeming evidence to the contrary, there is growth returning, and the tree will not only revive, but be more beautiful than ever. It is an inspiring vision of hope. Sometimes things that are reduced to the essentials, rebuild to greater strength. This is a good thing. Joe is also very wise.

How grateful we are for the return of Spring, and for the hope you have all so generously provided with your love and prayers. Our lives have been so blessed.

Happy Mother's Day, and our love to all,

The Clot

LEARNING THE ESSENTIALS

Hello Dear Ones,

Today is the Friday we have off from chemo-infusion, and we are finding we must make some adjustments from the routine. Because there will be no lab results, I find I am going through “numbers withdrawal.” It is always a challenge to interpret what the alphabetical letters stand for, and then to understand just what all the fractured figures and decimal points signify. As you can probably tell from prior blogs, I have never felt compelled to cease and desist polluting cyberspace with a glut of misinformation simply because I don’t know what I’m talking about. In fact, as this presidential campaign sludges on, I think this renders me the most qualified candidate! I may be unclear on all the chemistry, but when the doctors smile, I have sense enough to put on my Dallas Cowboys cheerleader outfit and launch the fireworks. Although, I really do wish I had greater mathematical acuity. Being married to someone with logical brain function makes it rather difficult to explain an over-drawn bank account. This puts me at a distinct disadvantage during our fiscal budget discussions. However, with only two firing neurons to my name, it is easy for “brain whelm” to occur. But ignorance has its privileges. I simply channel my inner impairment, render my own interpretation of the evidence, and bewilder the mentally elite. This can be very satisfying.

There is a volunteer at the Infusion Center that we are particularly fond of, and we always miss his engaging personality when we don’t get to see him. I look forward to our weekly infusion of his enthusiasm. He is tall (at least he seems tall because we view him from a sitting position). He has an easy affability, and a wonderfully energetic voice that is delightful, uplifting, and comforting. I thought at first that he was Irish, because he always greets us with a very convincing brogue. There is a little of the blarney in that man, and we love it. He inquires how we are, and asks what we would like to drink, as if he has just been waiting for us. He then serves our beverage of choice as if it were the finest vintage… V8. But at that point, he changes into his Southern drawl, and I find I am inclined to cinch in my corset until my waist measures 18 inches, attend the barbeque at Twelve Oaks, and have outfits made from the window draperies of Tara. By then, he has morphed into an authentic Italian accent, and in spite of the weather forecast, he has us all believing the day is “bella!” He can revise the essence of every current circumstance. I will get a picture of him next week so you can see the face of a man who can alter the composition of dismal to delightful with his attitude.

We are also marking anniversaries. In three short weeks, we will be in Disneyland. And not only are we going to ride every whirling, rotating, plunging, barf-inducing ride in the park, but we are planning to do it without Dennis’ nose hose. This will make tossing our cookies a little more puke-friendly. It will be a bit of an adjustment seeing his face without the tracks of the tubing in his beard, but we will adjust. His weight is increasing with a steady upward mobility, and soon he will be greater than the sum of his parts. In addition, it is the 12-week anniversary of the Whipple. Dennis still has the tracks of the incision that indicate what took place at that site. But we only look at it when our glasses are fogged, and even then, not closely. What is not observed, does not upset. This talent for denial serves me well. Actually, that is not denial in its purest form… it is just functional distraction, which has its place in most any circumstance.

We have learned so much since October. Why, just this morning I learned that if you apply Mennen Speedstick Deodorant directly after shaving your armpits, it really, really hurts!

I have become bilingual with all the medical terminology that has engorged my vocabulary. (Trilingual if you count harsh language).

I have learned that love not only empowers, but edifies, and that love that goes unexpressed is impotent. It is truly a transforming phenomenon.

I have learned that, like Erin says, peace is often most conspicuously apparent in times of adversity. It’s kind of like the visual oxymoron of hail on daffodils on the first day of May.

I have learned that little boys and toilet lids have an adversarial relationship. (Google Josh.com).

And I have learned that in spite of everything, I am still dreading the thought of having a cavity filled that is so cavernous, the dentist’s voice actually echoed his astonishment. (Well, I guess we all have to achieve notoriety somehow!)

But what we have come to appreciate most is that love is essential to life, whatever the circumstances… and this is what we have learned from you. It is enabling and ennobling. And we will ever be grateful for this.

Our love to you,

The Clot

TRANSITION

Which one of these is not like the others?

Good Morning, Dear Ones,

I apologize if I sound like some kind of numbers warlord, but Dennis’ stats are very lovely. I am going to relay these numbers and also give some explanation as to what it all means. Of course, these explanations will be dumbed down because that is how they were presented to me. I do not, however, take offense to that. In fact, in order for me to fully misunderstand the lab results, the nurse has had to go from dumber to dumberer. I’m comfortable with that. (One can only be insulted if one is clear on the concept!)

So here goes:

Blood pressure: 92 over 59 This means he must stand up very slowly or he will lose consciousness, fall down, get a concussion, and need stitches.
Oxygen: 98 This means he is breathing
Pulse: There This means his heart is beating. This is just what we wanted.

OK. Here is the pretty stuff:
Wbc: (also known as white blood count) 545. TA DAA! Last lab it was 251. This is very good.
Crit: This is the measure of the concentration of red blood cells. (When one’s crit is down, it is easy to lose one’s concentration) This went from 26-30!
ANC: This is the measure of neutrofils. (I’m pretty sure this is the amount of neutros added to glycerin to get an explosion…a favorite device of terrorists, but don’t quote me.) Anyway it took a quantum leap…1.6 to 3.7!
Platelets: 296
And finally
His granulocytes % …NOT APPLICABLE. Again, we are delighted!

We are so thrilled because with these numbers, he qualified for the full dose of chemo…plus saline solution. Now, I defy anyone to have greater cause for celebration than that! And, of course, as an added bonus, his frenzied follicles are not fading entirely. He has sustained constant hair production in at least two of them. We are so proud. They are visually apparent, but do not require any expensive maintenance. In the current economy, this is a great money-saver. This is all good.

In keeping with our efforts to transition from patient to survivor, the Clot decided to repeat Thanksgiving. Now we didn’t exactly kill the fatted turkey, but we did cook a roast and some potatoes in our new oven. Did I mention that besides getting some new toilets, we also got a new stove? It was not actually because we needed it…this was a “transition”-induced purchase. But the unit was 20 years old, and the girls thought it would be a good idea if we joined the 21st Century. I personally didn’t see the big rush, but sometimes compliance is easier that being mocked. As the installer was removing the old stove in preparation to put in the new, he complimented me on how clean I had kept it. I just smiled modestly… and unabashedly praised my own housekeeping prowess. ( I was just glad I had remembered to remove the packaging and bubble wrap from the oven before he arrived.) Bless his innocent heart. He obviously labors under the male delusion that I cook therefore I am! Not so, Wolfgang Puck Breath! But I figure with candles scented to smell like sugar cookies, candy canes, apple pie, and “Sunday dinner,” meal preparation in addition could lead to sensory over-load! Nasty infirmity.

Ah, but I digress. The whole family was there, and the aroma emanating from our house was because a real meal was in progress. And, as you know, when the whole family is assembled, stuff happens. As I was checking on the grandkids at one point, I noticed that the lid on our toilet had been “anointed.” In my best non-accusatory voice, I asked what happened. Josh, our resident comedian, said, “I did it, Grandma. You know when you have to go so bad there isn’t time to put up the lid? Well, that happened to me. But I’ll clean it up.” I was so proud of him for owning it, that I said it would be a privilege to take care of “incident management.” I also told him that happens to me all the time, and not to worry about it. It occurred to me that our new “transition” toilet had just been christened, and being semi-devout observers of the Word of Wisdom (if you discount bubble gum and Diet Coke) we did not have a bottle of champagne readily available… so Josh simply improvised. We are very proud of our grandkids’ ingenuity. So our potties have been properly launched. (Memo to self: KEEP TOILET LIDS UP!)

As you can see from the picture, Dr. Kate O and her husband are preparing for the LOTOJA on their custom, screamin’ purple tandem. If that doesn’t inspire covetousness! But not all things “tandem” refer to bikes. As you can see from the picture, Dennis is still in tandem with his feeding tube “pushee thingee.” If that doesn’t inspire covetousness! Will he ever walk alone? If we are what we eat, he is “canned Dennis” and I am a wired wad of bubble gum! But in the finest romantic culinary tradition of “The Rubaiyat” of Omar Khayyam, (and a galactic lowering of poetic expectations)…a can of Jevity, a box of Goobers, and thou, beside me in the wilderness! (Be still, my beating heart!)

If I haven’t mentioned this lately, let me reiterate: I hate cancer. I can’t concoct expletives bad enough to call it. (And as a West High grad who is also a card-carrying Dorrity, that’s something!) It is a disease of deprivation. But in an odd way, it is also a condition that elicits courage and dignity in its wake…and none more valiant than Rich Lloyd and his family. We have all been inspired by the grace of their example.

Last Friday, one of the patients in the infusion room had his last chemo treatment. The staff gathered around his chair, sang a song of congratulations, and presented him with a blanket. He got a sitting ovation from the other infusees. Since it is difficult to ovate with one hand when one’s arm is hooked up to a chemo drip, all the “chemo-sabis” applauded as he was saluted by those also afflicted. It is a privilege to sit among “the bald and the beautiful.” Each victory is our victory.

Dennis weighs in at a formidable 120…and that is an official “hunka” in our book. We will continue to work on our transition skills. And we will never forget the gentle angels that continually remind us that we are loved.

We love you,
The Clot

SURVIVOR

The future's so bright, he has to wear shades...

Greetings, Dear Ones,

In keeping with our policy of “Breaking News Airs Immediately,” I have a most joyous up-date to share. We had an appointment with Dr. Mulvihill on Friday, and we were really looking forward to it. At our previous visit with the Doctor, I had promised that the next time he saw Dennis, there would be vast improvement. Dennis has not only gained weight, but stamina and strength as well. He is borderline stud-muffin! His sense of humor is back, which saves my bacon concerning personal blog blab, and there is an over-all sense of well-being. I could hardly wait for Dr. Mulvihill to see I had made good on my promise.

It is my custom to take notes during the course of the appointment, because there is so much information dispensed that it exceeds my cranial capacity. When Dr. Mulvihill entered the room, he began enthusiastically informing us about Dennis’ over-all physical condition. He was anxious for Dennis to transition off the tube feedings, and promised that he will feel even better at the conclusion of the chemo treatments. He stressed that we continue the positive mental attitude, daily physical activity, and good diet. He did not want us to neglect the social aspect of meals. I had not thought of that, but I guess there is some validity to gathering the family around the old gruel pot.

But then he inserted something into the general interview that caught us both off guard. He said he wanted us to transition our thinking from cancer patient to cancer survivor. SURVIVOR! He said SURVIVOR! He continued with his reasoning for this, but Dennis and I just sat there looking bewildered. We looked like we had just been “tased.” I’m talkin’ “deer-in-the-headlights” stunned. It was a textbook case of “survivor confusion?” Is it possible that the idea of NED can so take one by surprise it becomes impossible to process the information? Even Dennis’ mouth was open. Oh, perhaps not the full-blown, molar-exposing, mouth gape like I was, but drop-jaw, nonetheless. For once, I was absolutely speechless! And I haven't stopped talking about it since. When I finally managed to get both my upper and lower lips in near enough proximity to form words, I asked him if he could walk me through that idea one more time…did he actually consider Dennis a survivor? He said unequivocally, “Yes.” He reiterated that Dennis was NED (no evidence of disease) there are no abnormal lymph nodes in the neck, his eyes are clear, and his tumor markers are 36. I wanted to ask a follow-up question to my follow-up question, but as luck would have it, all my faculties froze, and my allergies kicked in. My throat closed off, and every facial portal opened up. I oozed from all my orifices (orifi?) It was not pretty. Dennis was able to compose himself enough to inquire about going to Disneyland and returning to work this summer. Dr. Mulvihill thought both were excellent suggestions. I was about to ask about a Mediterranean cruise, but I was afraid that might be pushing it. And then Dr. Mulvihill left.

We lingered in the exam room hugging, before we were composed enough to emerge. We were scheduled for Friday infusion, and had to have labs drawn. However, Dennis’ vitals must have been affected by our visit with Dr. Mulvihill.

Blood pressure: 90 over 63 (!!!)

Temp.: 98.6

Oxygen: 94

Pulse: 92…after passionate kiss – 92 ½ (Memo to self: work on technique, girlfriend!)

Weight: 121 fully clothed.

Height: 5’8” – after good news…5’12

Color: pink…accentuated with designer gray

Smile: quite perceptible.

This is all good. However, the blood counts and his ANC were low enough that it was decided to postpone the chemo infusion until next week as they did not want to compromise his immune system.

So we drove home, speaking in word fragments and partial sentences. (we--, what the…hmmm, that sort of thing)

And then we worked on our transitioning skills. How do we think like a survivor? Dennis suggested we buy a toilet. For some reason, that seemed reasonable. Then I suggested we buy three. And for some reason, that too seemed reasonable. (Memo to selves: keep working on transition skills!)

When we arrived home, the Willow Creek angels arrived with home-made chicken soup and a bucket-load of candy. In our best effort to think in transition, we pounded down a theater-size box of “Goobers” without pausing for breath. We polished off those bad boys like it was an Olympic competition. And then we collapsed, exhausted and panting, into our recliners in a sugar stupor that surpasseth all understanding. Oh, the therapeutic value of the common Goober! (But we’ve got a ways to go on this transition thing.)

For so long now our lives have been measured by cycles of chemo, radiation, corrective procedures, major surgery, and doctors’ appointments. I am not sure how we will organize the propulsion of time when these treatments are concluded. By seasons? By events? By impulse? We have decided that we will be doing Thanksgiving again. I personally want to go outside, smell the flowers, inhale Spring, and schnuck up whole lilac bushes in a single sniff. Ah, but then I would have to account for the contents of my nostrils, and the humiliation factor made me think better of it.

So far, in our efforts to transition our thinking from patient to survivor, we have:

1. Bought toilets.
2. Stuffed Goobers.
3. Inhaled blossoms

Now what? Any suggestions?

We haven’t taken off our armor…the battle isn’t over yet. Perhaps we never will…we’ve grown rather accustomed to it. We are a little dazed at the moment, but our hearts are very full. This has been a long voyage, and we have not reached our destination just yet. We have had turbulent seas and major storms. But you have bridged the troubled water with tenderness, mercies, endearments, and love. We are most grateful.

We love you all dearly,

The Clot

p.s. We are over half way to our $5,000 goal! The word "Survivor" is possible in large part to the Huntsman Cancer Institute. Dr. OMara is training hard for the 206 mile race- Let's keep it going! For more info, or to donate, CLICK HERE