It Might Get Messy

OK. When I told you last week that you should check in this week, I figured I’d have an appointment on Wednesday where the doc would set up some diagnostic tests and I could let you know from those what would be coming next.

Well. The instant I showed up Wednesday, Dr. H had me duct taped into a wheelchair and whisked to the Emergency Room, where the triage nurse stamped a big “PRIORITY 1!” on my forehead and had me hauled into a therapy ward within about 15 minutes. And then the Armies of the Medical Arts took over and applied state-of-the-art science on my behalf for a couple days….

Holy frickin’ hell, they kicked the SHIT out of me the past two days. They stuck big instruments into my throat, bronchi, and lungs. They pressed me against hard boards to photograph my insides. They took a total of…6…7…a dozen frickin’ radiation exposures of different kinds (I’m sure just because I haven’t had enough radiation in the past few years). And that was before they exposed me to the therapeutic radiation, which they then did once a day. And then they stuck huge needles into my back and drained almost two liters of fluid from each side of my frickin’ lungs!!!

Man. The upshot is, though, that the doctors think if I go through a hellish month of radiation and chemo, I can buy a good 12 months. I dunno, sounds like a hand I’d play at the poker table so I’m in. 

Anyway, here’s what the docs believe to be the medical situation at the moment. Fortunately (it is a HUGE prognostic parameter), there do not appear to be malignancies in my respiratory tract proper. Rather, there is a tumorous mass in the peritoneal/pleural wall from my throat, down along my lungs and along the mid line of my chest. Plus the bit on the liver. The latter they seem to be dismissing as a meaningful threat. I’m certain because the pleural malignancies will kill me long before my liver gives it up.

At the moment (pending largely laboratory results on the 4 liters of fluids from around my lungs), docs expect the short, white-hot therapeutic radiation they are exposing the tumorous mass to to, if not kill it, at least suppress it. That will mean I can breathe and not drown in fluids pouring off the malignant membranes. Then, they think, carefully targeted chemotherapies can further suppress the mass so it doesn’t runaway in a hurry and kill me in painful, gasping-for-breath, immediacy. 

Finally, should the chemo not do the job, there is apparently an excellent clinical trial I might have access to. The therapy being tested only benefits about half the patients tested. However, that half goes into total remission and becomes disease-free! 

So, it’s not as bleak at this point as it might be (although not by much, I admit). I’m gonna have a miserable month—prepare yourselves for serious whining in the coming weeks. And the terror of my childhood asthma—gasping for breath for weeks at a time, exhausted, claustrophobic, miserable, are returning to haunt me. 

If nothing else, I got big-time meds, so unless and until I’m really on that downhill well-oiled slip’n’slide toward my final spot on the Great Suburban Lawn of Life, I should be able to keep myself at least moderately functional.

Remember how much I love you all. Next week, I promise you, there will be even more exciting (and probably painful, and possibly disgusting) stuff to report. So check back in. Rock and roll, everyone. It’s what we got left goin’ for us!!!