It Was 30 Years Ago Today...

30 years ago today, Leslie and I stood on the garden steps of Cronkhite Graduate Center at Harvard, and promised "to love, and in loving to give, and in giving to grow, and in growing to understand."  (I can remember that word for word after 30 years, but not what I just had for breakfast.)


Leslie swears that we exchanged another set of vows that day, including the more traditional "in sickness and in health."  I don't remember that (toast and blueberries), but I am willing to stipulate to it, especially now.  


In many ways, the two vows are inextricable, since nothing in our 30 years has demanded loving, giving, growing and understanding so much as facing cancer.


Loving and giving have been easy -- really just a little more of the usual.  Fetching a cup of tea, holding hands during chemo, making meals that won't necessarily get eaten, cutting back on travel.


Growing and understanding are more challenging, just trying to take in an ever-changing and never-certain situation that accelerated from "fine" to "far from it" in just a dozen weeks.  We're both still learning the right things to say and when simply to sit in silence, the balance between solicitousness and hovering, when to seek out information and when what's on the Internet is decidedly "TMI," and how to accept others' generosity.


We've been helped in our growth and understanding by wonderful friends, supportive family, and the two best things to come from our marriage -- Caroline and Emily, who have weathered our aestatem horribilis (making this up...forgive bad Latin) with grace, patience and humor.


This weekend, I was listening to my friend Ian's podcast, How to Do Everything.  One expert -- a stuntman talking about the unauthorized cross-country Cannonball Run auto race -- described out-driving his headlights at 150 miles per hour.  That's what "understanding" feels like right now -- the bumps and curves arrive faster than they can be illuminated, requiring that we shift focus from down the road.


Before Leslie was diagnosed, I was planning a surprise trip to the Pacific Northwest for our anniversary.  Tonight, we'll just have a quiet celebration -- scrambled eggs may replace fresh salmon, Gatorade may stand in for a Portland microbrew, a walk around the block instead of a hike in the Cascades.  


Washington and Oregon will still be there next year (unless we've turned them over to the Chinese as collateral), so we'll just trust they're out there, beyond the range of the headlights.


In the meantime, the promise still holds, Leslie.  I love you.

July 21 -- After Leslie activated the "network" yesterday to send birthday messages my way, she still had one surprise up her sleeve. When I arrived home at about 6:30 - bearing the spectacular birthday feast our friend Lindsey had prepared for us - Leslie was looking weak and short of breath. Even before I put down the food, I'd asked if she was OK.


It turned out she'd already put in a call to her doctor to report being short of breath. Amazingly, her trusted surgeon and wonderful PA were still in the office and diverted us from a an ER trip, bringing us into the empty clinic.

Leslie's lungs sounded good, but they wanted to get a new CT scan to rule out new embolisms (hard to imagine on her mega-dose of blood thinners). Dr. Yamada demonstrated her clout by getting Leslie into a private room instantly, and we wheeled across from clinic to hospital.

Emily wonderfully packed up my birthday dinner and brought it to us...arriving just in time for them to tell Leslie she wasn't allowed any food. Thankfully, Leslie didn't mind if I ate, so I enjoyed Lindsey's perfectly cooked pork tenderloin and sides, and Emily's carrot cake.


They picked up Leslie for the CT scan around 11:15 and we were back in the room by midnight (bonus: the icy CT labs have heated blankets). Due to a hospital-wide shortage of cots, I slept on the floor until 3 am, when they turned up a cot (not sure I want to know what causes a cot to become available at that hour). Leslie didn't sleep well, and the first round of med students arrived for rounds at 6:30, so we will both doze today, I expect.


The CT scan looks fine, so the good news is no emboli. Of course, that makes Leslie just what my brother-in-law Joe says you don't want to be, when it comes to doctors - interesting. The first doctor to visit said they want to keep Leslie overnight once more for precaution (releasing her tomorrow straight to chemo, we imagine), but it's not official until we hear from Dr. Yamada.


Locals, check in with me as the day progresses. If we do have to stay, visits might be welcome!


On the other hand, given the 100 degree heat and our underpowered home window AC units, staying here does seem like an extreme but effective way of keeping cool!

Update!

Home again! They didn't find any reason for the shortness of breath,  > but ruled out all the nasty possibilities, and addressed a shortage of  > electrolytes they discovered along the way. My breathing has eased  > up, and both David and I are looking forward to a good night's sleep  > before tomorrow's chemo.

June 16 -- You can't always get what you want, But if you try sometime, you get what you need. Leslie and I each have had our Rolling Stones experience in the past few days.

I was due to fly to Sao Paulo for a conference on Monday; our friend Katie (the girls' second mom) came up from Tennessee with her daughter to take over my role as caregiver, gatekeeper, bouncer and waiter. I showed up at O'Hare Airport to check in, and the gate agent leafed through my passport and said, "where is your Brazilian visa." My...what? Despite having visited Brazil about 8 years ago, I totally forgot about that (nothing else on my mind, obviously).

I set my Brazilian colleagues to calling in favors toward expediting a visa in under 24 hours (3-5 days is standard). The call that I could come in and get an immediate visa came around 1:00 on Tuesday; from there, it was a race against the clock to make the last connecting flight at 4:10. For both Leslie and me, this race exemplified the true meaning of "ambivalence" -- feeling strongly both ways. I/we wanted me to make the flight because seeing new programs and meeting new people are so central to my work; we wanted me to miss the flight because I'd then be home to accompany her to the doctor's appointment where she would get pathology and forward plans.

10 minutes. Had the consular agent taken the 15 minutes he promised instead of 40 minutes; had the traffic been a little lighter on the Kennedy; had the American Airlines ticket agent been a little more decisive, I'd be 6000 miles south today.

But, you get what you need, and I am incredibly grateful in retrospect that all those Stones lay in the road.

Having deeply buried the lead, we had our post-op session with the doctor yesterday to get the pathology and way forward.

They are confident that all the tumors were uterine cancer; there is no ovarian cancer, but the metastases are "acting" like ovarian cancer metastases would. As a result, the doctor wants to take a very aggressive approach that is perhaps more similar to what they'd do for an ovarian cancer.

Starting in mid-July, Leslie will begin six rounds of three-week cycles of chemo. On day 1, she'll spend a full day getting intravenous and intraperitoneal infusions of two different drugs. On day 8, she'll get a second round of one of the drugs, intraperitoneally. On day 9, she'll get a white blood cell booster, that she can likely administer herself at home. Week three is a rest and recovery week, and then the dance begins again.

The wonderful chemo nurse who walked us through the process said the first several rounds are pretty bad, but that people begin to rally and feel better in the later rounds. The side effects are pretty much what one always hears about -- nausea (offset by three different anti-nausea drugs), hair loss, long-bone pain, loss of interest in Sarah Palin. (Just checking that you're still reading.)

Not what we wanted, certainly, but what she needs.

In other ways, we have surely gotten what we want and what we need. We are beyond grateful for the response of our friends, family, and Leslie's Lab School family. Some of you may have read the New York Times article about what to say and what not to say to someone with a serious illness. For the most part, it is on-target; our biggest disagreement is that we have cherished every "thinking of you" just as much as the visits, meals, flowers and books. Clearly, we will continue to need your encouraging "karma rockets" from now through the fall.


Leslie is feeling better every day post-surgery, and is planning a trip to Rhode Island for just pre-chemo. She's walking daily, up to a mile at a time, and pestered her doctor to connect with her personal trainer to work out an exercise plan. Her plan is to go into chemo in as strong shape as possible -- physically and mentally. For those who say, "you're a trouper" (or trooper) Leslie responds, "it beats all the alternatives." Rest assured, though, that if down days come, I'm ready and willing to be her human "Bobo doll."