The Calm Before The Storm

Interesting times. Thanks to all who've emailed, called, FB posted, and spoken to me in person. The sheer number of prayers, thoughts, and considerate offers of help is whelming, if not overwhelming. You can't have too many prayers, I think.

Monday we go over to Moffitt to  consult with Dr. Sotomayor, one of the world's experts on Mantle Cell Lymphoma, and a truly significant scientist in the battle against MCL. There we'll find out options for treatment, plumb his brain on things that aren't quite "standard of care" yet but I could try, and generally pummel him with requests for information. We are actually the kind of patients he loves. Google his profile and papers.

Hope lives. Leading first line treatment, Bendamustine plus Rituxan, is advertised as half as toxic and twice as responsive as what I had last time, CHOP-R. Might not even lose my hair, if that's the one I take.

In other news, I'm finding the second time around is different, and I finally figured out why. No Whirlwind.

If you've never had cancer, or been the immediate support person for a newly diagnosed victim, you may not understand this statement. If you have been in that position, you'll get it right away.

First diagnosis is a stunning, literally, event. You are stunned into semi-coherency. Then you enter a strange, surreal whirlwind of appointments with oncologists, surgeons, even your dentist. You have lab work over and over. Scans, biopsies, and exams. Insurance calls, juggling schedules, work arrangements, child care issues.

Then there's "the calls." Who do you call when to tell about this. Facing co-workers. Figuring out who will be offended if they don't hear it straight from you. Yes, people get their feelings hurt over your cancer. It's a sign of your measure of the closeness you feel for them.

Second time around around, it's still stunning. But for me, at least, not quite as much. I mean I KNEW I had cancer, and that it could come back. In fact, I've been "outside the science" for the last three years, meaning my cancer is a recently identified type, and there weren't many people who'd had similar treatment to mine. So, statistically speaking, there aren't any good statistics for me and mine.

This time, we already know the drill. The urgency to treat is there, but not quite as high pressure. We already know that Moffitt has valet parking, where the offices are, that the lab will be a nightmare, that scheduling is horrible (already changed 3 times in two days, for a simple consultation appointment), and that over there, you are a "case" not a person.

I know what a chemo port is, how the surgery will feel, and who the surgeon is. I can compare possible treatments against those I've already had for potential suckyness.

And, most of all, I know that God will be with us through this ordeal. He was last time, He's here now. I've not had a bad night's sleep since my diagnosis. I'm about 90% at peace. I've already been approached by a minister friend about healing services, something that truly worked last time.

Last time, I was assured of victory quickly, but was Told I'd need to go through the process. Out of that came a book ministry that's touched easily a thousand people. A consulting ministry that's helped (I hope) dozens. Since 2006, I've been approached, like clockwork, every three weeks by someone needing advice. The conversation always starts: "My (spouse, child, parent, friend, co-worker, neighbor) has cancer and the doctors aren't listening to them, are giving them conflicting advice, don't seem to care, etc." If it went more than three weeks I got itchy, then would get 2 or 3 approaches in a week to make up for the gap.

So, this time, I'm wondering how He will do what He does best, turn bad stuff into good stuff. In that way, I can't wait!

Thanks to all, and keep the faith. We are.

KB