Back In the Chair

It's Tuesday. Feb. 23. 6:30 pm. I'm sitting in the clinic with my husband, reading a magazine, getting a dose of chemotherapy through an IV line. I have nothing but time so figured I'd just start writing whatever comes to mind. Chemotherapy is a test of patience. It sluggishly drips from the bag, falls into  a long, narrow tube and then flows into the catheter in my chest. It takes hours to complete a dose. I never thought I'd be here at a cancer clinic - especially not now, right when I was hoping to build our family and my career. I feel like we were just getting comfortable with the direction of things. And then suddenly, boom, cancer. I've been here at the "infusion center" for more than 6 hours. And at least another hour to go. Starting to feel the medicine.  I don't feel nauseous so maybe the anti-nausea medicine is working. But I'm drowsy. My joints are stiffening. And I'm so dry all of a sudden. Almost immediately, my lips have become chapped and cracked. My hands too. I'm drinking tons of water to stay hydrated and to help prevent the chemo drugs from harming my uterus and kidneys. "Drink lots of water and empty your bladder frequently," the nurse warns, reminding me of how toxic this stuff is that's dripping into my veins. I didn't expect to be here today. I was supposed to be starting my stem cell transplant but somehow the stem cells they collected from me are contaminated. Go figure. Contamination only happens 1% of the time. This is exactly why I have no respect for probability. Just because something is not likely doesn't mean its impossible. Now that I have a rare cancer, I don't feel any comfort from statistics that show that something is unlikely. Unlikely happens! I feel like I need a T-shirt with just that on it.  Its unlikely that I'd have plasma cell leukemia. In fact, those were the words of one of my doctors before my diagnosis. He said: "You need a bone marrow biopsy today because you could have multiple myeloma, a very rare blood cancer." But he added that "It would be highly unusual if you actually have it." And for some reason that kinda comforted me. Well, let's just say "highly unusual" has happened. Not only do I have multiple myeloma but I have it in a flavor called plasma cell leukemia, which is even more aggressive. Fast forward a couple of months to this week.  It was unlikely that my stem cells would be contaminated. But that's what happened. To have to switch gears mentally and come back to this chair in this clinic waiting for this IV to finish is upsetting. But slowly, I'm starting to think, or hope, that maybe there's a reason and this is all part of the plan. My friends tell me that a setback is a setup for success. So I'm searching for the positive...My doctor today told me that while they are trying to determine the next step for me, it makes sense for me to be in this chair, starting up another cycle of chemo.  The thought at first made me sick. Just like the transplant, I don't want chemo but I know I need it. The mental conflict is nauseating. They don't have pills for this kind of nausea. But I'm still searching for a positive to all of this. My doctor did note that I'm responding well to treatment. The cancer-related proteins in my blood are falling. If the numbers got to zero, I'd be in complete remission.  Maybe I'm back in this infusion center because God wanted to rid me of more cancer before proceeding with the transplant. I don't know. Either way, I'm still certain I will be okay. My cancer is lethal. The statistics are scary. But the good thing about knowing the unlikely happens is that I know the unlikely can happen for good as well. I know there's a solid reason to keep the faith. The unlikely happens! T-shirts coming soon.