Holding patterns . . .

This is one of Bob's many wildflower photos . . .

Why does clarity come after the fact? After we're home, have time to ponder, rewind and replay the morning's events . . . why can't it always be with me, when we visit with doctors, sitting in the middle of an event at hand. Maybe for the same inexplicable reason I come up with great comebacks after an offense—"Why didn't I say {fill in blank} . . .??" or "Dammit! I should have said {fill in blank} . . .yeah, that would have been great . . ." I guess I just lack that gene, that chromosome or whatever it is that's responsible . . . I wish I were better at impromptu thinking, off-the-cuff responses, instead of thinking of what to do, what to say, in hindsight. . .all of this would be so much easier . . . {{{big sigh . . .}}}

We didn't get the exact answer I wanted from Bob's appointment yesterday, but it wasn't terrible news, either. Doctor S. said, based on the results of the CT scan, the tumor has not shrunk, but hasn't grown, either. See, now this is where I should have asked, "So, what is the point of all this toxic chemo, anyhow, Doctor? All the vomiting, hair loss, mouth sores, glowing drugs, cracked fingers, stomach issues, the sitting around, the lack of sleep, weight loss, for six weeks now. . . that's not counting the two months' suffering Bob's endured before the diagnosis . . . shouldn't the chemo be doing something to that tumor? Isn't a part of the reason Bob's a bit more mobile these days is because the tumor is lessing its grip?!? C'mon, give us something, anything . . ."

But no. That's when some unknown entity pushes the puree button on my brain. It spins into a big ol' churning mess of thoughts and emotions, and suddenly, I can barely focus on the list of questions in the notebook I'm holding, much less formulate a question that pertains to new information, to an answer I wasn't expecting . . . hasn't shrunk, hasn't shrunk, hasn't shrunk, whirls 'round and round my brain . . .

I felt such heaviness in my heart, another hairline fissure spreading across its surface with the doctor's words. I asked him repeat them, because I wasn't sure I heard him right. I so wanted Doctor S. to say, "I've got great news for you! The chemo is working far better than we expected, it's amazing! The tumor is half the size it was, and you're ready for surgery sooner than we thought!" Makes me wonder who or what's really in charge, how even though there's a set schedule for treatment, there's no set schedule for how the cancer will respond to the treatment. Just because I say so, doesn't mean it's going to be so . . .

Doc S. pushed the upcoming outpatient infusions into next week, Tuesday and Wednesday, as Bob still has mouth sores and other residual side effects of the most recent treatments. Doc also said because of the serious effects Bob had to the first round of chemo, and due to his previous experience with chemo as a child (some drugs have a "lifetime dose," meaning if one has been exposed to chemo before, they can't take as much second time around), they'll back off on the strength of the chemo this round, too. In my head, I'm crying, pleading, "No!! Don't back off! Please don't back off—BLAST this shit, Doc! Get it out of my husband—do whatever it takes . . ." Outwardly, I nod in agreement, look over at Bob, who is shifting uncomfortably against the exam table. Inside the whirring continues in my brain.

So, six more weeks of chemotherapy, the same routine that Bob has just gone through, then surgery, then more chemo. I'm doing mental acrobatics, trying to calculate all the dates and time frame as we talk . . . we're looking well into April as the proposed surgery time frame. Seems so far away, can't even catch a glimpse of that day on the horizon . . .

Why I thought cancer would follow our schedule, Bob's wishes, my demands, is beyond me . . . I know better than that, yet I'm not rational when it comes to this big ugly thing. C'mon! We have reservations at Wild River State Park guest house in June—work with us, please . . . Nothing is rational, nothing makes sense with any of this. Nothing fits into the confines of neat, tidy little packages, or easy-to-understand explanations. All day long, I've had to take lots of long, deep breaths to keep from crying at work. Don't know why, as it wasn't terrible, horrible, very bad news that we got . . . was just hoping for a little more, some progress, something to hold onto . . . but, this stuff began at a microscopic level, cell by cell, and is probably responding as such . . .

This morning, I was still restless, preoccupied with the unasked questions. I placed a call to the U cancer center's triage line, left a message with Doc S.'s nurse, gave her a list of all the questions that came up: what is the point of the chemotherapy? Why hasn't anything happened after six weeks? Is surgery still going to happen, even if the tumor hasn't shrunk after this next six weeks? I asked for Doc S. to call us back; the triage nurse said she'd pass the word on. I took Rocco out for a walk and Doc S. called while I was gone. Bob told me that after talking with the doctor, he felt an inexplicable sense of calm, relief. Doc S. reiterated (I do remember this now, from way back, when our connection with the U was first made) that the main goal of the chemo is really to soften the tumor—this sarcoma is a bone tumor, a hard tumor—and to keep the cancer from spreading. Given the location of Bob's tumor and all the nerves involved, softening it will assist in the surgical process. That another six weeks is the standard treatment, and surgery is still planned for after the next six weeks' treatments.

When Bob feels relief, I feel relief. When he moves around the house a little easier, eats a little more, laughs a little easier, goes outside to throw a pork tenderloin on the grill in the middle of the day, the fog dissipates a little. On my walk with my crazy Rocco, I talked with my mom, telling her the latest news, what Doctor S. had relayed. I tell her I realize it's hard to be focused and on the ball when we're the ones in the midst of the storm. That I guess clarity is difficult from our position; it comes much easier to outside sources—friends and family (hell, I'm the first one to dispense unsolicited advice to family, because I know best . . .). It also comes in the quiet moments, during holding patterns, when it seems like nothing is happening . . .

Quick little p.s.: As I was getting ready to publish this blog entry, there was a knock at the door. We thought it was FedEx, delivering another batch of heparin (to flush Bob's PICC). It was a delivery dude from a local courier, with a beautiful basket of goodies from Surdyk's! Various hunks of cheeses, gourmet honey, fancy candies and chocolates, teas, crackers . . . absolutely lovely! The doggies were as excited as we, to receive this . . .