Chapter 8

December, 2006

The procedure to drain fluid off Don's lung again and seal the pleura was pushed back a week, almost to Christmas, which meant we wouldn't be able to travel to his parents' house for Christmas, as we always did. It might even mean he'd be in the hospital for Christmas. But that didn't matter much, if we could somehow make him better.

My obsessive Googling made me almost certain that wasn't going to happen, especially after I found those statistics about survival for cancer patients with pleural effusions. But neither of us was a doctor, and it was possible we were wrong.

On December 19, we went together to talk to the oncologist.

Don and I walked into the doctor's office together. He was wearing his beloved Virginia Tech jacket, which he'd gotten last year for Christmas. I considered Tech's colors to be a horrible eyesore (maroon and burnt orange? Seriously, what were they thinking??), but I had to admit the jacket looked pretty good on him. And he adored it, wearing it whenever he had the chance.

As we sat down, I looked around the office, seeing people without their hair, emaciated people, people who were very clearly ill. I wondered if the other people in the room were studying us, both of us apparently healthy, and wondering which of us was the cancer patient. And I wondered how long it would be before Don was quite obviously the sick one. Would his hair fall out? Would he become nauseated from the treatments? Would he get even thinner?

I glanced surreptitiously at him. He sat tall and straight in his chair, looking almost as healthy as ever but for a hint of tiredness around the eyes. The Virginia Tech jacket concealed his too-thin frame, and he breathed easily. All in all, he looked perfectly healthy.

He didn't look like a man who was almost certainly dying.

Before too long, we were called back to the examination room. The oncologist was a round-faced, kind-eyed man, perhaps in his mid-forties, who had a gentle voice and manner. He talked for quite a while, and his recommendation was for Tarceva, a drug that was available through pharmaceutical trials. Don took quantities of notes, writing ferociously in a leather-bound pad.

"Look," he said at last, "what are my odds of beating this thing?"

Despite the gentleness in his voice, the doctor was bluntly honest. "You have about a one in four chance of living a year, I think."

I leaned forward. "What about five year survival rates?"

He looked at me with solemn dark eyes, and his voice grew more gentle than ever.

"About one percent," he said.

*****

1993

After he finished letting out his emotions, Don got in the car and drove to Georgia. When he got home the next weekend, he was grimly determined to figure out a way to make certain he could have kids when this was all over.

"You have to have chemo," I said, glaring at him. "Chemo is not optional, okay?"

"I didn't say it was. But I've been talking to some people I know, and there are these folks down at Duke who might be able to put together a different chemo regime for me."

Not too much later, we drove down to Duke. Sure enough, the oncologist there thought the regime that had been proposed was a little too severe. He proposed an alternative regime that would hopefully take care of the cancer, while still leaving Don able to have kids.

Don's oncologist agreed, and he was scheduled for chemo. We had a single brief window in which I could get pregnant, and we did our best. Unfortunately, it didn't happen. The chemo would last six months, and then we would have to wait a while for the chemicals to clear his system. It would be most of a year before we could try again for a baby.

His chemo was administered twice a month, two weeks on and two weeks off. Stubbornly determined as ever not to miss work, Don had them give it to him Friday night, so he'd be able to suffer through any side effects over the weekend and get back to work on Monday-- he hoped. It did mean he'd have to stop traveling, which was something of a problem, as he was working as a consultant and was in the middle of that Georgia project. But when he explained the situation to his employer, they kindly let him stay in the office and work from there.

The first chemo session was interesting. After testing him, they determined he might be allergic to one of the chemicals, so they administered intravenous Benedryl in order to prevent any possible adverse reaction such as anaphylactic shock. The person administering the chemo warned Don that the Benedryl might make him feel a little lightheaded.

It didn't make him lightheaded. It made him outright drunk.

I was somewhat amused, because Don never drank. He didn't like the taste of alcohol, but more importantly, he didn't like the loss of control. So to see him trying to drunkenly carry on a conversation with the person giving him chemicals struck me as very funny.

It was less funny when they finished, and I found myself trying to steer an inebriated six foot six guy toward the car.

"Come on," I said, tugging gently on his arm and hoping he wouldn't fall on me. He staggered after me, looking vacantly happy. I didn't know what effect the chemo might have on him later, but right now he was clearly feeling no pain.

I finally managed to get him into the car, helped him buckle his seatbelt, and took him home. He didn't talk much on the way. He seemed lost in a contented haze, which lasted till the next morning.

By the next morning, the Benadryl had worn off, and he wasn't happy.

"Do you think you're going to throw up?" I asked, leaning over him worriedly. He was sprawled in bed, clearly uncomfortable, but unable to pinpoint the problem.

"No. My stomach's okay. I just feel... lousy."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. Well, sort of. My teeth hurt."

I looked at him, frowning. "Your teeth hurt?"

"Yeah. My molars feel like someone's trying to pull them out with a pair of pliers."

"Okay," I said, frowning a little. That wasn't a side effect I'd ever heard of. Clearly chemo had some strange effects on the body.

"But mostly I just feel.. .I don't know. Blah."

I shrugged. "So we'll hang out in bed all day."

And we did. It wasn't really a big deal-- we didn't have kids to run after, or all that much to do beyond yardwork and housework. It wasn't a problem to hang out together and spend time playing cards, or talking, or watching TV.

By Sunday, he felt somewhat better, and by Monday, he got out of bed at the normal, painfully early hour and headed for the office, his shoulders squared and his spine straight. His posture and attitude said clearly, This thing isn't going to make me miss work. I won't let it win.

Once again, I was impressed by how tough the quiet, nerdy guy I'd married was.

Read Chapter 9 here.