I have set up and maintained a web page for our co-op.  I also maintain the database for membership in our fitness center.  I will have to pass these chores along to someone else.  (The web page is going to be tricky, because I don’t use any GUI tools for it; I just write the code into the files.  The database shouldn’t be a problem.)

One of my neighbors, a hematologist, is on the co-op board and also on the fitness committee.  I’m not yet ready to spread the word through the building, so I decide to approach him individually.  He is more than helpful.  He starts by reminding me that I’m not just a patient, or a webmistress, or whatever.  I’m a friend, and the people I’ve been working with will treat me like friends.  He also asks about the oncologist I’m seeing and the ones whose names I got from my brother, and says he’ll be happy to see what he can find out about them and who he would recommend.  I thank him.

My sweetie comes with me  to see the oncologist, Dr. S.  It’s a dreary day– wet and raw.  We find our way to the unit and fill out the initial paperwork.  We wait.  Eventually they take my vitals, and we wait some more.  Finally, Dr. S’s nurse gets us, apologizing for the delay. (They had a meeting, and it’s thrown their schedule off.)  She takes a very comprehensive history.  When she asks about cancer in the family, I have a lot of information for her. I doubt that 5% of patients know as much about their aunts, uncles, and cousins medical histories as I do.

Eventually Dr. S is available.  He is somewhat avuncular, a little too much for my taste, but if he errs on one side or the other, that’s the right way to go.  He asks what I know about my situation. I tell him.  He confirms it.  There is no cure, zero per cent.  That, of course, is the bad news, but it’s not news.  He examines me and we go back to the consulting area.

The standard treatment, he says, is Gemzar, which is relatively mild in its side effects for a chemo drug.  They have a very new experimental protocol in place, combining Gemzar with another drug (supposedly also mild in its side effects).  The protocol is randomized, so I wouldn’t necessarily get the second drug, but I’d be getting the Gemzar in any case, and he says that I’m in “such great shape” (yes, his very words!) that I’d be an excellent candidate for the protocol– if they can put the paperwork together quickly enough to make it happen.

The point is that this looks aggressive, and we want to start as soon as possible.  I will have a port inserted (to allow infusion and blood draws without constant searching for veins), and he wants the first treatment to start within ten days.  He makes some calls, sets things up.  We go to the scheduling office.

I will have the port inserted next Thursday, November 3, and my first treatment on Friday, November 4.  It is mid-afternoon when we leave, going out into the bleak, wet day.

I send email to more of my friends.  My sister calls to find out what happened.  My parents call.  I am very tired, but I don’t sleep well.