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| Been a while, hasn't it? |
 Alex and me...hasn't she grown?!? |
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March 1--the last time I posted here--seems so long ago. Since then, The San Francisco Flower and Garden Show came and went I finished winter quarter Wayne and I visited my aunt and uncle in North Carolina We celebrated Nolan's second birthday We celebrated Alex' third birthday (a little early) I went on a bunch of garden tours and I learned some news from which I'm still reeling. Tuesday, April 10. Wayne and I had returned from NC the night before to a clogged up email mailbox. I cleared it out and was merrily reading away when I got to a message from one of my best school friends. "I trust you're sitting down," it started, and indeed, it is a good thing I generally read email sitting down. The words jumped at me like they do to characters in bad novels. "probably have cancer" "lymphoma" "lumps in neck, groin, armpits" Oh god. Not Mark. I think of AlanBear. I can't help but think of AlanBear. I resolve not to tell Mark about AlanBear (a resolution I guess I'm now breaking). Zapped an email back--"anything I can do to help--ANYTHING--let me know." Mark is. Hm. He's my buddy, a big brother I've never had but more than that. I think we'll work well together in the future--assuming he stays healthy enough--because we connect well and because we have complementary talents. He just got his landscape contracting license, loves designing and installing irrigation, loves daylilies and rhododendrons (and lychnis and callas and ...). He's married with two young sons, about 45 years old but he looks closer to 35. For the next three weeks (well, nearly), I kept quiet at school as he'd asked. Tried to act as if everything was normal around all our fellow classmates. Researched lymphoma online but found that without knowing what kind it was, there wasn't much I could find out. Mark got a lump biopsied and had a CAT scan (and went off to Mexico for an annual trip with his family). I developed an understanding of every meaning of the word worry. Thursday, April 26. I discovered that I can't keep a secret if asked about it directly. Two of my friends asked if Mark was sick. My resolve crumbled like a fresh gopher hole. Fortunately, Mark's consultation with his doctor was scheduled for the next day, so the news wouldn't spread far before it could become official. On the plus side, both friends reacted to the news the same way I did--whatever they could do to help, they were there. Friday, April 27. The news comes. Not Hodgkins. Not the same as AlanBear. It's a slow growing type of lymphoma. However...currently incurable. Incurable. I sink through the floor again. Mark includes a link in his broadcast email that describes the type of lymphoma as well as a bit about survival rates. 7.5 to 9 years median. Not long enough. God. He's only 44. He won't see his kids graduate high school. Since then, the emotional roller coaster has continued. Mark found an article by Stephen Jay Gould called The Median Is Not The Message which gave him new hope of surviving longer than that dreaded 7.5 to 9 years (especially since Mark's very healthy in all other aspects). [I highly recommend that you read the essay found at that link. It is wonderful.] But he has some large cell lymphoma in with his small cells, so a possible experimental study was probably out. Then, the day he went in to the doctor assuming he'd start chemo, he learned that he might be accepted for the study after all. The best part of that news: the study holds out the best hope for a cure (cure!) that there's been so far. They take a cancerous lymph node, create a vaccine from it, and inject the vaccine with a generic immunal response stimulant drug. It's used in conjunction with regular chemo, so study participants don't lose out on the gains they would make following the standard treatment. The latest in this wild ride: today he meets with the doctor in charge of the study (Dr. Ron Levy of Stanford) to learn whether they'll take him. And me? I took my first deep breath in a month when I read that the study held out possibility of a cure. A cure. Even the remotest possibility of a cure. How wonderful a word is cure, how hope-filled! There is a chance--I can breathe again. Cheryl ps. Happy birthday, Mark! I know it's sometime this week... |
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