I now doubt my ability to walk two miles or even one. My liver failed, I had no white blood cells, I had a fever and a bad case of thrush, preventing me from eating or drinking. My oncologist sent me to the hospital, where I remained six nights.
I went home on hospice care. Much more could be said, both good and bad, about the past month, but I am tired. I have little energy for replies to email, for instance, and even less energy for visitors.
I don’t know how long I’ve got–a few weeks? Days? I use a walker, with assistance. To get around the house.
The book should still be published, though it may take a while.
Thank you all for your thoughts, prayers, meals, and the many other ways you have loved us. God’s blessings on you all.
My liver numbers are moderately worse. The two big steroid infusions Thursday and Friday didn’t solve the problem yet. But the nurses today were more concerned at the virtual disappearance of my white blood cells. Continue reading “Missing: all my white blood cells”
This morning’s liver panel showed large increases in my liver enzymes, and my bilirubin shot from 4.1 last week to 12.7 today. That was considered dangerous enough to bring me back in late this afternoon to load me up with a high dose of intravenous steroids (Methylprednisolone 500 mg). I go back tomorrow for another infusion. Monday, I’ll have another liver panel and meet with my oncologist.
I’ve written before about the metaphors we use to describe our relationship to cancer. This recent LA Times op-ed also makes a good argument for questioning the way we talk about having cancer and why.
When she became dizzy and passed out in the hospital, she’d wanted to ask her oncologist if she was dying, but she couldn’t bring herself to project anything other than a positive outlook. “I’m not a quitter,” she told me, “but I think fighting this is killing me.”