Friday, November 17, 2006

On A Different Note

When it rains, it pours. If it wasn’t world altering enough to find out that the love of my life was diagnosed with cancer, I’m dealing with the news that someone who has become an unexpectedly good friend from the web is dealing with an even more sobering disease. He has told me he’s been given an alarmingly short amount of time to battle Lou Gherig’s disease. It’s really been weighing on me. Talk about perspective. This is someone I didn’t know from Adam a year-and-a-half ago. This incredible individual participates on a sports forum that I visit daily. Each day, for every post I write, I have a new joke-of-the-day signature that follows my oft-comedic (well, at least I try), and usually inane ramblings. What started out as a relationship built on his emailed contributions of new humor has become a full-fledged friendship, wherein we have a beer (or nine) whenever he’s in town on business, and several phone calls throughout each month. This is a guy who is as old as my mother and father (sorry, man!)—not someone I would have expected to become a person I would lean on for support throughout my ordeal with Anna’s situation, and certainly not someone who may be benefiting from the support I’m giving him with his battle. Perspective. Man, I hate perspective. It’s okay for me to write about my hatred of the dealings of the management and front office of the Seattle Mariners, but to deal with the reality of life’s unfairness (I hate the term unfair, but it works here), it’s sobering. I want my friend to know that I’m by his side, thousands of miles away, and praying that a cure is found for his disease soon. Real soon. And I have faith that it will.
Where does this leave me? Well, Anna has a disease that although has no cure, I’m sure she will be rid of soon. There’s no chemo for Lou Gehrig's. My friend, whom I hold out hope will recover and rebound from all of this, doesn’t have that sort of prognosis. My heart, soul, and prayers go out to not only he, but his loving family, He’s become a sort of inspiration for me. This is a man who wishes to put aside his own ailment to call and ask how Anna is coping. How I am coping? How can I tell him that I’m feeling anxious about Anna’s chemo, when I know what he’s going through? Easy. He’s incredible enough to put his thoughts of she and I above his personal thoughts of well-being. For that I thank him, and want him to know how much that truly means. There you are, miles away, my friend, and as your thoughts are with us and our battle, Our thoughts, love, prayers, and spirit are with you during your struggle. Your jokes lift me up. Your friendship lights me up. Thank you for being you.
Cancer? Schmancer. We’ve got love to deal with here, people.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Next Step

Anna had her first chemotherapy treatment yesterday. I took the day off to be with her, and plan to do so each time she goes. I'm fairly sure I was more nervous than she-- She was a bit nervous the night before, but we had a great visitor come by, and I think that lightened her mood a bit.
It was really hard for me to see her plugged in to the chemo IV. I mean, it looked like any other normal IV, but I knew what was in it. The entire process takes about three hours. Drip, drip, drip. The way it works is, she sits down in a recliner seat, they plug into her port-a-cath, and I sit across from her in a chair. At least I can be there to talk to and support her. They have televisions, DVD players, and magazines. They offered us snacks, soda, and coffee. "Welcome to chemo, want a bag of Fritos?" Some seats are more private. I assume they are for those who aren't doing well with their treatments, or those that don't wish to fraternize with the other patients. Of course, Anna and I don't mind talking to, well, anyone, so we were seated next to a woman who was 60. She was there with her sister, who accompanies her for each treatment. They drive all the way from Packwood, Washington, specifically because she knows that Swedish Providence is the best place for cancer treatment, and she's right. She mentioned that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago, and subsequently underwent a lumpectomy, chemo, and radiation. Not long ago, they found a couple of suspect cells during a checkup, and sure enough, the cancer had returned. Unfortunately, to operate would disturb the cells and risk spreading, so she likely will have to endure chemotherapy for the rest of her life. She mentioned to each of us that our outlook and personalities are what will carry us through this ordeal. We've got plenty of both.
Anna was feeling well this morning, before I left for work. She had to go back to the cancer center today to get a shot that she will have to receive either the day of or day after each chemo session. It is administered through the belly, and can have painful side effects. It's role is to coerce the bones to kick out extra white blood cells from the marrow to the body, bolstering her health a bit. Apparently the side effect is fairly severe bone pain. The nurse told Anna it would feel like her muscles were aching, but it would actually be the bones. My thoughts on this? This is utter crap (I'm reeeeaaally editing myself here). I wish there was an actual guy out there that was responsible for giving people cancer (Dan Cancer would be his name), so I could pummel him. Daily.
I can only imagine that she will start feeling worse as the days continue, and I don't know how I'll respond to that. Probably my usual stoicism (not brave-- more of an incompetent thing) mixed with morbid and ridiculous humor. That's my thing. Fortunately, it's Anna's thing too. I'm not looking forward to seeing my wife sick, losing hair, and potentially feeling insecure and upset about both. I have to try and remain as strong as possible for her. I also need to pull more than my weight at home. Something I constantly need to remind myself of.
My sister-in-law, Allison, is here with us as well. She's 20, and had no real ties to South Carolina, so she came up on a one-way ticket for an indefinite stay. The more the merrier in our "charming" 600 square-foot apartment. At least the view is nice. She's been an enormous help around the house, helping with cooking, cleaning, and caring for the baby. I'm sure she's getting stir-crazy, and we need to remind ourselves that she needs to get out and explore.
So here we are, on to the next level. Scary stuff. I have no idea what to expect throughout these treatments-- everyone reacts differently. I know how I'll react though. I'll be beating up Dan Cancer if you need me.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

The path to chemo

Anna met with the surgeon Monday. The pathology reports from the mastectomy came in, and of the twenty-something lymph nodes that were removed, only three were affected. The tumor itself measured 6 centimeters. This puts here at around stage three, I believe. She WILL have to undergo radiation treatments as well. Not the best news possible, but certainly not the worst.
She will have the port-a-cath inserted on the 7th, then begin chemo on the 14th of this month. She's mentioned that she's scared, but I'll tell you, she sure has a strong exterior. I think that's the only thing keeping me sane throughout all of this.
We went to Gilda's Club last night for a signup orientation. For those of you who may not know, Gilda's Club was the idea of Gilda Radner, who died of cancer. It was formally founded by her husband, Gene Wilder, and Gilda's psychotherapist. Here's a link to their page. It's a wonderful organization, all volunteer, who coordinate support group meetings, social funtions, and wellness classes for those battling cancer and their families, friends, and other supporters. We sat in a circle with a few other new registrants, all with different forms of cancer. Everyone told their personal story, and rarely was there a dry eye. One woman, a prominent former head of the OR at the University of Washington, mentioned her fear of going through chemo. I think that hit Anna pretty hard. A person of long medical background frightened of chemo! How should she feel then?
The Seattle branch of Gilda's Club is in a beautiful converted house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. We toured the facility, and were blown away. "This is the 'one day at a time' room. If you're in-between doctor appointments and want to relax or sleep for a while, just stop in." "This is the kitchen. Usually there's food out on the counter or in the refridgerator. Help yourself if you need lunch, or just a snack. It's free." "This is 'Noogieville.' It where all the kids can hang out and play with toys." "This is the arts room. If you're feeling artistic, stop on in and used any of (the hundreds) of items we have. It's also where we have professional jewelry, knitting, painting, and other professionals volunteer their time to teach workshops." I should make a shirt that says, "My wife got cancer, and I learned to cross-stitch."
I mentioned the club's social events. Dances, karaoke, concerts, bingo night, and many other fun "mixers" to help strengthen your support group and network to meet new friends. It's going to be a great thing for us.
In other news, my boss set up a Paypal account (I believe you just search for Anna Warren Schumacher at www.paypal.com, and you can donate). Although it's been a test of humility for both of us, the monetary donations and offers of food and babysitting have been very, very appreciated. I can't believe how many people out there have dropped everything and run to help us out. Were are truly blessed.