1. Morning preparation. He's up before me to get a workout in before the free buffet breakfast and the ride on the free shuttle to the clinic. Even though this is only the second time we're going to MD Anderson, we feel like experts compared to the other youngish couple also riding on the shuttle who are here for their first appointment. It's somewhat disconcerting how quickly we've learned our way around inside the large main building: what floors to go to, where the cafe is, which elevator is best to use to get to each area we need to visit.
2. Blood work. At 8am, we enter the laboratory area that's packed with people. We sign in and sit for just a few minutes before his name is called, along with 4 others. They line up and are each dispersed into a separate room, stuck, drawn and dismissed. Efficiency.
3. Wait. First we wait in the main waiting area for our 9:30am doctor appointment. Josh plays games on his iPhone as I work on one of the many puzzles that are placed around all the waiting areas throughout the building. Isaac joins us after he finishes his 8:00am class over at UT Houston medical school. We're called in pretty much right on time, but wait in the small room until nearly 11:30am to finally see our nurse practitioner (with whom Isaac jokes that "we're not here for the customer service, we're here for the brains").
4. Doctor visit. The doctor has some concern about a potential clot and entry into a vessel in his chest. They don't want to add any blood thinning agent on top of the chemo because of other risks, so they'll just watch that closely over time. But after a manual checkover, he proclaims Josh ready to take on the rigors of chemotherapy with the most aggressive form of treatment he can prescribe. He assures Josh that he is anything but average when it comes to this noma and that he is "an Olympic athlete" in relation to the typical 70-year old who is fighting this kind of noma.
5. Pharmacy. We have a list of 6 medicines that Josh has to pick up at the pharmacy in the clinic (a change in pain management and new drugs to help reduce nausea), enough that fit into a medium-sized brown paper bag. Sadly, even though I feel like his bag is huge, it's not nearly as large as several others that are grocery bag sized. Everything is relative.
And as we leave the elevator to enter the 9th floor (where the pharmacy is), I notice (but Josh and Isaac don't) a mother with a small boy (maybe 3?) in a stroller. With the telltale bald head and ID bracelet, the boy is clearly going through chemo as well. Sadly, cancer affects people of all ages and, despite the sadness that Josh has to go through this at 38, he's nowhere near the youngest. Everything is relative.
6. Lunch. MD Anderson has a nice cafeteria with lots of options. After a brief hesitation, Josh goes for a selection that is not on his "healthy" list (sausage and pepperoni pizza), but complements it with an orange, a plum and a V8 drink with many different vegetable and fruit juices.
7. An attempt at a movie with a welcome interruption. Since Josh's chemo isn't scheduled until 6:00pm (with 7 hours it puts us at a not-so-welcoming 1:00am finish), Josh and Isaac head out to go see a 2:45pm movie to pass the time and hopefully laugh a bit (the selection is She's Out of My League). I choose to stay at the hospital to get some work done. But as I start to get settled into a desk and get connected on the laptop, I get a call from Josh saying that they were able to fit him into chemo at 3:00pm and they've turned around and will be there momentarily. A blessing to know we'll be done at 10pm rather than 1am.
8. Chemotherapy. The actual chemo administration was surprisingly uneventful. 7 hours of Josh lying in bed with an IV in his arm, watching funny movies with Isaac, listening to one of Isaac's funny podcasts from his library, talking with Abe and Lynne, eating. We leave Josh alone at one point to give him some space and quiet. He's chipper and nearly pain free (which has been quite unusual for quite some time and we're not quite sure why).
9. Immediate aftermath. Josh is all done at around 11pm and walks down the hallway without the limp he's developed over the last couple of weeks due to pain. Pain is being managed well right now...we hope it's a harbinger for what's to come. Josh is feeling so good and is so convinced that he won't suffer any side effects that he wants to bet me something. I don't take the bet because I want to put all I've got toward the most positive outcome possible.
End of day 1.
Our prayers continue to be with you!
ReplyDeleteLove, Tim and Amy