Happy Chemo Birthday

Sorry about the whole going private thing.  We'll probably change it back at some point, but for now you'll have to log in to read about cancer.  Have I mentioned that I hate cancer?  In fact, I dislike cancer so much, that I hereby declare it as being unworthy to be spelled correctly.  So from this point forward I shall spell cancer, canser.  Ha!  Take that cancer.  I mean canser.  

Okay.  Let me get you all up to speed here.  Sam is doing great and taking his chemo like a freaking champ.  He breezes through his infusions and so far the most annoying side effect has been feeling very fatigued.  He gets up and goes to work EVERY. Single. Day.  Which quite frankly, is pretty incredible.  And he's only puked once!  If this somehow ends up being the extent of his side effects, it would be the equivalent of winning the lottery.  But all things considered, he's handled everything extremely well.  We're holding our breath for this week's scan that will show if this particular type of chemo is proving effective.  Here's to hoping for those freakishly large tumors to be, well, less freakishly large.

In other news, most of you probably know by now that Dad has spent the last 5 days up at the Huntsman Canser Institute relaxing, recharging, and just generally having a fabulous time.  But let's back up a little.  A day or so after he was released from the hospital initially, he started having pain in his kidneys that he thought was kidney stones, because, you know, he wasn't quite miserable enough.  He made a late night trip to the emergency room which resulted in a ransacking of the medicine supply room, after which they injected him with a dose or two of everything they found.  They even sent him home with a drug that made him hallucinate about fighting monsters.  Street name: Ecstasy.  Anyway, two trips to the ER and his general surgeon's office later, the situation had become significantly more serious.  And then a miracle happened.

I have this aunt named Nancy.  Actually, I hate calling her my aunt because it doesn't even begin to describe what she really is to my family.  And over the past two weeks she's been more like a guardian angel than anything else.  We still don't know how she did it, but on Wednesday afternoon she made some calls and worked her oncology mojo, and somehow convinced the folks up at Huntsman's to admit Dad.  Truth be told, I believe she saved his life.  Thanks Nanc Superwoman, we owe you one.  It wasn't long after checking him in that we realized how serious the situation really was, and still is for that matter.  It went from hopefully, maybe, possibly starting chemo sometime next week, to "please roll over so we can stick this extremely long needle in your hip and take a sample of your bone marrow, then we'll proceed with a spinal tap, then surgically place a port under the skin on your shoulder, and oh, by the way, we need to start chemo TODAY", which is always comforting to hear.  Needless to say, they weren't kidding.  See diagram below.  

He'll complete a total of 6 (I think) treatments of R-CHOP chemotherapy which consist of,  

*Rituximab  

*Doxorubicin (it's bright red)

*Vincristine

*Cyclophoshamide 

*Prednisolone

If you can pronounce even one of those drugs correctly, I'll personally deliver you a fruit basket.  

The first treatment was on Saturday, which was also Mom's birthday.  She was honored to spend it watching toxic chemicals dripping into Dad's veins.  But nothing could keep them from enjoying a good birthday spoon. 

I will be thoroughly reprimanded for including this picture, I'm sure.  But I had to do it.  It's the perfect reminder to me of what canser can't do.  This poem is posted right outside Dad's room in the hallway of the hospital...

Canser is so limited...

It cannot cripple love.

It cannot shatter hope.

It cannot corrode faith.

It cannot eat away peace.

It cannot destroy confidence.

It cannot kill friendship.

It cannot shut out memories.

It cannot silence courage.

It cannot reduce eternal life.

It cannot quench the Spirit.

I can't tell you how touched we've all been by the amount of love and support that has been shown to our family.  My parents especially.  As difficult as this has been, and will continue to be, our faith in God's plan for us remains unshaken.  If anything, it's been strengthened.  I can't even begin to count how many times over the past two weeks I've heard Dad say, "I'm so lucky",  which would mean he's either completely mad, or truly an eternal optimist.  I think we all know it's the latter.

No word yet on when he'll be released from the hospital.  But I have to tell you, that John Huntsman is all class.  The facility is beautiful, and the food is great-ish.  I mean, I can think of less pleasant places to be.  Kind of.  Not really.