An Inconvenient Tumor

Man, people are sick here today.

We're at Cedar-Sinai's cancer center getting Bryan's Avastin infusion and it is jam-packed. Normally it's pretty slow and we get in and out; that is, if you consider a three-hour infusion "in and out."

But this is our job now, so we don't mind. We don't make a fuss, act pushy or irritated, or treat the nursing staff with the disrespect that so many other people do. Because just like us, they're doing their job and without them and their knowledge, we wouldn't be able to be treated at all.

There are little revelations I'm learning throughout this process. Today, I learned that if you've got to get cancer, summer is a much better time to have and fight it than winter. I say this because as we get into fall and winter, the flu is here. And this year, we're not battling the regular flu, we've got H1N1 to worry about, too.

There are signs ALL over the hospital about the flu (they're even taped to the parking ticket machine), giving strict instructions about who can enter the hospital, what to do if you've got respiratory illness, and providing copious amounts of Purell and masks at every reception desk.

There are a LOT of people wearing masks here today. That's because, as I said, there seems to be a stunning number of incredibly sick people here today. Way more than what we're used to seeing. Bryan even remarked about it to me, and when he notices it, you know it's bad.

The majority of the patients in the cancer center today seem to be men. I'm not sure why, but they are accompanied by their wives. I've made eye contact, smiled and said hello to a number of women clearly shouldering the task of taking care of their husbands, and it's like looking into a mirror.

These wives look so tired, so worried, so patient and yet trying so hard to keep themselves together. They are rubbing their husband's backs, gently massaging their chemo-affected bald scalps, asking staff for extra blankets to keep their men warm, and making sure the water or juice they are slowly feeding them doesn't spill and stays down.

And this is all in the waiting room.

I feel a kinship with these women, because just three months ago that was me. There are no dividing lines, either, because these women are of every age and ethnicity under the sun. But they have one thing in common: they're doing everything they can to take care of the loves of their lives, short of curing them. They can't do anything to make the medication work better, to kill the cancer, to improve their immune system. But they can keep their husbands warm, clean, hydrated and comfortable. A few women tried to joke with their husbands, but the men were clearly too tired to laugh. It's the craziest thing you've ever seen, watching this one ring cancer circus affect everyone differently, yet exactly the same. And everyone is watching.

Bryan has been doing a lot better, but just a few months ago we were subject to the most intrusive of stares of people at the cancer center. It doesn't matter that we're all here together; it's human nature to look. It used to bother us early on, but realize you have much, much bigger priorities and just ignore it. But unlike out in public, here people look with a silent acknowledgment and understanding. No one wants to be here, yet we all hope that the treatment provided by Cedars is the best we're able to get. So we sit, we wait, and we don't complain when labs take 45 minutes, because really, there is no alternative.

In the midst of this, however, the one thing you don't want to have to worry about is another disease affecting your loved one during an already insane battle. So, when it's flu season, there are a million other worries. We wash and sanitize our hands constantly, I keep our apartment as clean as possible, and we take extra care when we're actually at the hospital. Cancer patients' immune systems are down and it's incredibly important that they don't get exposed to sick people. It's just another job we've got, in addition the therapy, chemo and Avastin.

The good news is Bryan's immune system seems to be considerably stronger than it was in August. As of today, he's down to 0.5mg of steroids, which means (assuming all goes well) in two weeks he'll be off them altogether.

We met with Dr. McHottie, our radiation oncologist, yesterday, and the appointment was good. When it comes to brain tumors, the conversations patients have with doctors are incredibly different than what most of us are used to. There is no talk of long-term prognosis, no talk of a cure; there's just a lot of talk about RIGHT NOW. And right now, McHottie said that the most recent MRI showed that Bryan's tumor looks like a "bunch of dead cells." He agreed that we can expect it to continue shrinking over the next several months, and that the Avastin really helped to calm down the radiation effects. He was confident the negative impact on Bryan's functionality was due to the radiation effects, not tumor growth. He specifically said that if the "tumor was growing, it would continue to grow even with the Avastin infusion." "Basically," he said, "your tumor hasn't budged an inch and it's staying put."

That news combined with the expected continued shrinkage is about as good as it gets right now. But the bad things about inoperable brain tumors is that they're like ticking time bombs; you never know if and when they are going to start moving. It could be two months or twenty years. Or never. We're going for that last option.

Time to get another warm blanket for Bryan; it's especially cold at the infusion center. If I can't cure him, I can at least keep him warm.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

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