We Have a Diagnosis! (LynnK)

No, this is not a celebration party, although the new diagnosis is good. Well, about as good as a cancer diagnosis can be. The photo is from a couple of weeks ago, when I felt lousy but tried to grab any shred of fun I could find. Always a good policy, even when cancer is involved. That's Thea-Sherpa over by the door, beer in hand, and the good-time guy crooning into the karaoke mike is her DH.

It seems like months since my assigned Primary Care Physician sat across from me and told me, somewhat circuitously, that The Garden of Doom growing in my chest could not be cut down with a surgeon's instruments. Only palliative care could be offered while the Garden took me over and laid me out for good. My sister was beside me, trying to suppress her tears while she scribbled fiercely detailed notes. And though she later counseled hope and optimism, she'd heard what I heard.

That all seems a very long time ago, but it's barely three weeks since the Ultimate Deadline was laid out for me. Meantime, between weakness and ongoing pain, I wasn't absorbing things with what you might call clarity. I'm not sure who guided a followup investigation nor precisely how it developed, although I did know all that at one time. Not for a very long time, I expect. And by now, I owe hundreds of emails. If you are among the neglected, forgive me. And don't wait around for me to catch up. I'm about to be even less mentally ept than usual.

Here's the little I know for nearly sure. My oncologist says the pathology reports show me to be the victim of a not-uncommon form of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma called Diffuse Large B Cell. A name only an oncologist could love. And since my personal oncologist describes this as "eminently treatable," I'm growing rather fond of it myself.

If we can shoulder ourselves into the schedule, I'll be starting chemo early next week. Each treatment takes two days, the second shorter than the first, after which I get three weeks for "recovery." I don't know how many of these cycles there will be, what they are giving me, or, frankly, anything else at this point.

Otherwise, life will continue on with related medical appointments (getting my lung drained again in the morning), and the ongoing struggle with Postherpetic Neuralgia. I've long since forgotten what a painless day feels like. Even a painless few hours. I just hope I haven't grown too weak to fight this next challenge.

But I'll give it my best. It seems my deadline has been extended. And frankly, nothing has seemed to me more difficult than trying to close down a crammed residence (and a life!) within a couple of months. I need all the time I can get!

Along with some fun. Before this news, with me so swollen up with edema and Doom Flowers I couldn't wear my regular clothes or shoes, I nevertheless staged a formal ceremony on the lawn in front of my apartment. The occasion was the appointment, complete with dubbing, of Thea Gurns as my Official Sherpa Porter. I've always wanted one. Nearly always needed one. And when she kept insisting on schlepping my stuff, I offered to raise her to an honored place in my entourage. She quickly accepted. To my astonishment.

I had to admit the entourage was small, as in one other irregular member who rarely shows up when needed. Alicia Rasley has long been my designated gallowglass (aide and bodyguard) but I couldn't tell you the last time she threw herself in front of a lance for me. Something of a slacker gallowglass, to be sure. But there's not exactly a queue lined up to replace her.

That's me with the sword, outlining a Sherpa Porter's duties. "No Complaining," quoth I. "You could be in Nepal." To her credit, Thea-Sherpa was properly humble and remarkably dedicated.

Witnessing the most impressive scene ever seen on this particular patch of lawn was Lymond, Comte de Sevigny, gazing down from his cat tree.


Every day, I give him new reasons to despair of me.

Update: Chemo starts Monday. Heeere we goooo!