a miracle, again

More rare than the possibility of cancer vanishing is the acquisition of a reasonable rental in New York City.  And this we found, an apartment available for cancer patients post-hospital and for a "capable adult caregiver" (that's me, I'm faking it) while patient is in hospital.

So, a miracle.  Again.

From the Latin miraculum, "object of wonder," a miracle is neither a supernatural event nor a product of faith.  It is experiencing life as pure wonder, freedom, and freshness in every moment.  That's it.  

From this point of view, we've had a wonder-filled weekend.   I had some time away, enjoying a lazy afternoon with a friend at a winery cafe overlooking the lake; together we've hiked and picnicked and been supported by many, many kind thoughts and offers of housing and cat care and visits while in New York.

Again, thank you.

Candace

a long day's journey...

On Tuesday we traveled to/fro New York City, a 20-hour day.  This is what happened.

We arrive at Memorial Sloan Kettering.  

We wait.  

Other customers file in and out, with staples atop their skulls, in wheelchairs, on crutches.  Rich still looks way too healthy to be here.  He's also the only guy wearing a tie.

A date for surgery is fixed.  29 August, next Friday.  Unknown what will be affected, and what functions Rich will lose by then.  Each day gets worse. 

Then, downtown to Memorial Sloan Kettering's midtown branch.  

We wait.

We gobble our take-out lunches (we've been awake since 4:30 -- that's A.M.).  From a pretty good salad bar, I have broccoli rabe, quiche, spinach pie, garbanzos.

Rich tries to schedule the required pre-op tests before we leave today.  Not easy, sent from one floor to another, but he's a pro at this.

Finally, the tests begin, and Rich will be occupied for about an hour.  I check my backpack at the front desk where a genuine human being takes the bag, and smiles, and calls me sweetheart, and said go for a nice long walk, don't worry.

I do, but I'm fading.

Back in the waiting room (yes, that is what they call it), I realize I need food, any food.  I rip open the free bag of pretzels and fill a styrofoam cup with hot cocoa.  Salt and sugar and I'm good to go.  

We wait.

For what, I ask Rich.  We have an appointment with the oncologist overseeing the drug trial, which Rich is now off, or will be off as soon as he finishes his current supply of $7,000-a-month pills (paid for by the drug folks).

It's getting close to leave time, we have to catch our bus, and not many folks are still waiting.  I almost open a conversation with a burly fellow wearing a somber expression and reading Robert A.F. Thurman's book, "Anger."  Maybe we can chat about Buddhism, I think, then think again.  Too risky.  Maybe he hasn't absorbed the book's message, yet.

Neither have I, at this moment.

For what are we waiting?

Finally, after several prompts by Rich, we are admitted.

Let's resume the chemo after the surgery, the oncologist says.

Why, I ask.  Why not wait and see if growth resumes, since chemo's efficacy is unknown and is otherwise poisoning Rich.

Okay, says the doctor.  That's a possibility, too.  

We stop and buy bread and focaccia for the return trip.

I really want a beer, or wine, or sleep.  

Most of all, I want to go home.  With Rich.

Candace

Wh

Pre-op tests,

Then, pre-op tests.

growth

A brief update.  Rich's scan earlier in the week revealed growth in the tumor.  

Not nice.  

The plan, as of now: Go to New York on Tuesday, meet with neurosurgeon, and set a date for "decompression" surgery.  Then, recovery; perhaps followed by chemotherapy, although no chemo has been shown effective against chordoma.

Meanwhile, we eat blueberries, drink wine, and enjoy the last days of summer.

Candace