She flies through the air with the greatest of ease

On April 10th Mary Rose began the second half of her chemo treatments, bidding good riddance to the double whammy of Cytoxan and Adriamycin and a warm welcome to the milder Taxol. We were somewhat surprised to learn that in spite of being easier on the system overall, Taxol can have a much more dramatic effect shrinking the tumor itself. The usual exam before the first Taxol treatment showed C/A had done its job; the tumor was smaller, softer around the edges and more easily operable. So far so good here in cancerworld.

Taxol requires a bit more pre-med prep before treatment. 20mg’s of a steroid the night before, another 20mg the morning of, and some Benadryl to boot, all to prevent an allegic reaction to the treatment itself. Taxol is a slow IV drip, taking just over 3 hours to complete. We set up camp in the Oncology clinic for the day, laptops clicking away, eating meals, making calls, monitoring kids from afar. Mary Rose is given no end of good natured crap for actually working during chemo itself. Between the exam, blood work and the treatment itself it’s about a 6 hour day at the hospital. Then the real carnival begins.

Pumped full of steroids and enough other substances to make Robert Downey Jr blush, she comes out of this treatment with all guns blazing. “I feel great! I feel fantastic. I have so much to do. I want to walk the boulevard! This is great chemo! I have to get her laundry done. This is so much better than the last stuff. I want to stay up and watch 30 Rock!” and so on. The treatment was on a Thursday and this continues into Friday. I’m fairly certain she was up at 3am answering emails and eliminating items from her to-do list. One can only stay airborne for so long though, and on Saturday she comes tumbling down. The bed and the couch are visited with some frequency, the lists seem much less urgent and she is easily convinced to let husband do the cooking after all. Some equilibrium is restored by Sunday, and by Monday she is out the door and off to work like any other day. There’s an emotional element to this cycle as well, of course. The confidence of the 36 hours or so after treatment fades and some melancholy creeps in over the weekend, only to fade in turn by the start of the work week.

In addition to pharmaceutical acrobatics, she has also become something of a master of disguise. Her work wig is such a flawless match that she is often complimented on her great new hairdo, a comment which requires either an hour-long explanation or none at all. She does not look like a sick person. She does not look like a cancer patient. She looks like herself, so much so that she got carded (yet again!) not once but twice in the following week, much to my fuzzy-headed chagrin. At home however, things take a more exotic turn. She has embraced her baldness, pretty much tossing her wig aside the moment she walks in the door, and venturing out to run errands more and more with just a hat. She is very beautiful bald, and perhaps it’s just the geek in me, but I find it sexy in a sci-fi kind of way. Truth be told, I’m the freak show around here.
Me: I hate my hair and I hate my head. I look mean and old
Mary Rose: No you don’t.
Me: Oona, does Daddy’s short hair make him look mean and old? 
Oona: Well, (pause) you don’t look old.

Saturday the 21st we headed for Boston again for a happily non-medical reason, this time to give Oona a vacation week treat. We went to see the Big Apple Circus on tour. BAC is an old school circus: big top tent, one ring, none of the new age glitz of Cirque du Soleil or elephantine spectacle of Ringling Brothers, just clowns and acrobats, some trained dogs and horses, feats of balance and strength. Off to the North End for dinner after that, then back to the hotel where a certain young lady stayed up far too late and woke up far too early. Mary Rose held up beautifully through it all, unflagging in her energy and spirit, a feat of balance and strength all her own.

Thursday the 24th was her second Taxol treatment, the sixth of a total of eight chemo treatments. Another day in the chair, another dose of poison and steroids and whoosh! she is off again. I watch her arc above me, functioning with a grace and determination that still leaves me awestruck. I track her path as the first flush of medicine recedes and she starts to lose altitude. I wait here on the ground no less impressed by how, even on the down slope of the drugs, she still pins her landing.

Tumbling Dice

There’s only one really fatal disease, I’ve concluded. It’s called hypochondria. And it is deadly.
Keith Richards

We had a date last weekend. In part for her birthday, in part for why the hell not? Saw the Stones/Scorcese film Shine A Light before we went out for dinner. Went to the 3:40 showing. “Is this the future?” I wondered. Afternoon movies before an early dinner? What a drag it is getting old.

Once you get past the fact that the 60+ Mick Jagger is still remarkably energetic and looks about 30 from the neck down, the most enthralling aspect of the film is the magnificent ruin of Keith Richards. Scowling, smiling, listing, smoking, leering, grinning, almost stumbling and never missing a riff, beat or flourish. The recent concert footage is interspersed with old interviews, news reports, etc, cataloging the many misdeeds and excesses of “Keef’s” past. I’m sure were are not alone in concluding that, of all people, Keith Richards should have cancer. Hell, Keith should have breast cancer as far as I’m concerned. But he does not. On and on his glorious, decrepit carcass rocks, while my soy-eating, health-conscious, vitamin-and-anti-oxidant-savvy wife gets cancer. “Who ever told you life was fair?” my mother would always ask. For her though, it was not a rhetorical question. She wanted names and dates.

Thursday, March 27 was the last CA (Cytoxan+Adriamycin) chemo treatment; the last of the first half, the harsher stuff. The bounce back from this round took considerably longer than before. More than a week out she still wasn’t quite right; that low-grade unsettled stomach hanging on until last Sunday. Her white blood cell count dropped to 1.9 and her red count was indicative of anemia. Nothing unexpected, but a bit jarring nonetheless. So much of this comes down to a numbers game; the centimeters that define the severity of a tumor, the stages of the disease, the weeks of treatment, the various measurements of blood, the months between now and normal.

We took our little show on tour last Tuesday, down to Boston to consult with Dr Mary Jane Houlihan at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. Dr Houlihan is the first cousin, once removed of my niece-by-marriage, Katie O’Brien. I figure in the Irish scheme of things that makes us identical twins, so it was good to meet a family member for the first time. Our intent was not so much to get a second opinion, but to hopefully get confirmation that Mary Rose’s treatment is on the right track; that an expert in the field in a prominent practice in Boston would be doing nothing different. We are pleased to report that was the case. Dr Houlihan and her team examined Mary Rose’s records and course of therapy, and physically examined her when we were there. The chemo is doing its job; the tumor is shrinking, the second half of the treatment is likely to shrink it even more dramatically, and it is currently operable–a significant milestone. And so we continue.

We went to the North End after our appointment. Walked around, picked up some pastries, proscuitto and other Italian goodies. Had a very substantial lunch and she was even feeling good enough to have a glass of wine. We were in no hurry to get home. It was good to just sit there for a while. We made a toast to making progress. We may not be able to make the numbers move any faster, but they are rolling in the right direction. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.