Just a nibble...

I don't have too much to say today, so I won't say much about that which there isn't much to say. Today was my first outpatient visit to the cancer clinic at U of C. All that means is that instead of receiving treatment lying hooked up to an IV in a hospital bed, I wait in a lobby for about an hour for them to call my name. They call my name, draw my blood, and then I go back and wait for another hour while the blood is being tested to make sure I'm still healthy and will be okay to receive the drugs. And then I get cleared for chemo, so they call my name again. They take me into the back room where patients receive their transfusions. I wait another forty-five minutes for the two chemo drugs to arrive, and then I let the friendly nurse Sharon, who can't quite pronounce my name correctly, inject the drugs into my system. And then I wait another thirty minutes until they are sure I won't have a reaction, and then I get to leave the clinic, much the same as when I entered. The really good news is that I'm doing very well, in terms of my body's recovery. My doctors are all impressed with how well I'm reacting to the drugs. I think I've noted this, but they were expecting me to stay in the hospital for another week. But my immune system is just about back to normal now. I am no longer neutropenic. (see prior posts for definition). I don't have anything until next Thursday, when I have another bone-marrow biopsy scheduled. That one is important: the results of it will determine the effectiveness of the therapy. Otherwise, no more chemo for me for about a week and a half, until I start the second month. Yay.

And that's about it. I was the youngest person at the clinic today receiving treatment. That was weird and oddly saddening. Wives waiting for their husbands to be called, clearly tired because they'd been there for hours, waiting on the blood results. There were two different father-daughter duos, the daughters waiting for the fathers to finish. And there I was with my father, but he was the one driving me home. There's a weird lack of emotion in the clinic. Aside from the tiredness of everyone there, especially the patients, there was a sense of wearied resignation. I hope I don't become wearied. Resigned, okay. I'm resigned to this; there's nothing to be done except get better. But weary or tired? That's when people start getting depressed about their lives. And I've realized that I've outgrown whatever depression I had in highschool. There is no point in going back to that. So goal: stay fresh, I guess. Stay expectant of the good things to come. Alright, manageable. Let's go.