It’s been a little while since I’ve written anything. I could blame it on the fevers that have plagued me. I could attribute my silence to the fact that I am completely and utterly overwhelmed by the treatment plan looming ahead of me.
When I was diagnosed, I erroneously believed that treatment would consist of Course I (approximately 30 days of chemotherapy) followed by a bone marrow transplant. I am sure you can imagine, then, how overwhelmed I was to learn that not only would I have to endure Course I, I would also have to somehow survive 54+ days of Course II.
Fifty-four days of chemotherapy.
At the end of those fifty-four days, providing I continue to respond to the treatment, I will also have to undergo a course of radiation. The radiation is designed to make sure that the tumor is completely eradicated before moving forward with the transplant.
Prior to my bone marrow transplant (and in an effort to avoid any infection), I will have to visit a dentist. Considering how my immune system fluctuates, finding the time to see a dentist may prove more difficult than anticipated—I can’t have work done if I don’t have an immune system, and it’s something that needs to be completed prior to finding a donor.
There just seems as though there’s a lot to do. And, yes, I am afraid.
Once Course II’s 54 days have passed and a donor has been located, I will go to Boston for six days of intense chemotherapy. My immune system will be completely decimated. I will likely be sick. I will most likely lose my hair. After the sixth day, the donor’s bone marrow will be infused into my body. I will spend four weeks as an in-patient, waiting for the new bone marrow to take root. Praying, that the donor’s immune system won’t, in fact, kill me (because that is a possibility).
After, as my counts begin to rise, we will visit Boston once a week for a month to monitor for Graft-Host Disease. These visits will continue for six months, my time eventually shared between Boston and Burlington. I won’t have an immune system for much of that time and will be sporting gloves and a mask. I won’t be visiting people.
This is life. It makes my heart race. It makes breathing difficult.
But, there have also been beautiful moments—small moments of victory. My bone marrow now contains less than 1% cancer blasts. My Central Spinal Fluid (CSF) is still not clear, but we’re making progress, each day. Time is passing and with it, the remaining days in this treatment plan. There is an end in sight…albeit a fair distance away…but it’s marching closer and closer.
The week ahead will consist of four days (in a row) of chemotherapy. I am still occasionally struggling with fevers. My appetite has all but vanished. This isn’t easy. I often tear up, unsure how I can fight this fight. Please, Dear Readers, send light, love and healing thoughts. We need all the strength that we can get.
With Love, Laura