chop chop

"Are you sure I'll lose my hair?"

"Yes. The Idarubicin takes no prisoners. It usually begins to go 1-3 weeks after you stop taking it," said Dr. Pfister and, sadly, 2-3 other people. Not all chemo does this. This one does.

I called my hairdresser Genevieve at Artbeat Salon & Gallery in Berkeley (this is a plug and they are wonderful). I asked if she would be willing to come to a hospital, seeing me as a leukemia patient. I take away no points for free choice or squeamishness. After that moment of stunned pause, she said, "Yes, of course." I asked about the charge for a house call. "Just the normal salon cost," she said. I plotted a generous tip and told her I'd send her an email with directions, which in the insanity whirl of yesterday I completely forgot to do. 

I sent her a quick email an hour before her hoped-for 10 am arrival, then phoned the Salon. The receptionist said, "It's okay, they're on their way." They? "Charlene's coming, too." Charlene Stratton is the owner and my hairdresser 5 years ago when she was merely the posh stylist of the century in Marin County. After the birth of her first son 18 months ago, her schedule shrunk and I was given a choice of other stylists. Genevieve won. Today they both came. And this is a month after Charlene and her husband welcomed their 2nd son into the world!

I have a short and sexy cut for 1-2 weeks. I couldn't bear to let long clumps of hair cling to my pillowcase or gather in the shower. I had to treat myself. And they wouldn't take a cent from me. I cried. I said, "I don't know whether to wish I could give you a million dollars each or stand in gratitude and accept this. Thank you." With a humbled heart I then found a gift basket online to send to them sometime next week. With a little teddy bear in it, amidst the faux posh noshes.... for a little child who is frightened sometimes. And for hope.

confetti healing

Can you believe this? Hopefully it's a clickable creature and you can savor the succulent nuances that my Advocate and best friend from childhood Stacey created as one of my MANY healing gifts. She and her husband Leland have made what can be called "Visionary Art" or "Treasure Maps" - putting your dreams and wishes up for daily prayerful reminders. The oldie (ahem) upper left photo is of Stacey's older sister "Susie" (now Alex), little me, little Stace (with Kitka my cat). I'm guessing 1963-4. We were the Shiny Stone Club of Venice Beach, California! (Guess what we collected and revered). My Chancel Choir from St. Paul's Episcopal Church is in the bottom left (let's see which choir members catch the Photoshop doctoring). Middle me with shorter hair is from Stacey & Leland's 2002 wedding in Big Sur. Flowers and Jesus, friends precious in Scotland (Tony & Ali), a bobble head Bill W. doll.... even my oncologist Dr. David Pfister next to healthy blood cells! I cannot remember another time I've been so utterly awash in love and tender care. And some gold for prosperity, too. I wish for abundance on multiple levels, and not only because this will be one expensive trip even with insurance.

I am of course being reminded that attempting to write next to more than one photo is a grueling arm-wrestle. Or perhaps my patience is being tested yet again, but one hospital-gowned Diane coaxed one of the nurses to catch this giggle with all three of us piled in bed. And that's right; Stacey and Leland are wearing masks. Part of the exciting protocol of visiting a sickie with a sucky immune system (only if you have the sniffles or something light). I have to wear one when I walk out of my room. And I thought the gowns and "Bob" (my IV pole) were bad. I can't even leave the oncology ward until I'm done with chemo in four more days. I am a walking biohazard. 

A blessed and beloved biohazard though (and some of you may have thought I was a piece of work beforehand). I think this could be a 50-page blog entry to acknowledging the astounding bliss coming my way. "Trapped" in my room for a chosen healing and taking in such heaven from YOU all..... from your emails I can't respond to one-on-one, to your phone calls I cannot always take since there's usually some medical professional in my room doing something to me, to beautiful cards and yummola chocolate arriving..... my cup explodeth. I am learning how to swim in cascading amazement. THANK YOU O SO MUCH. 

Chemo Day; let the games begin

I have a quirky edge right now. One of the {bazillions of!!} challenges in wanting to share this journey is the fact that, by and large, hyperbole notwithstanding, someone (sometimes more than one) comes bashing into my room every 5-10 minutes ..... at least 13 hours a day. Like without warning (I've given up on the no knocking wish; I can't potty train the entire universe or even 2North here at Summit). But I can cave in to parenthetical excess while I do the 2.5 hour countdown to having a PICC line put in and the first round of chemo to begin. 

And in the 5 minutes from when I stopped writing and the actually really nice nurse came in, I am in another round of TMI overload. Sometimes I'm just a little kid who is really sick and is getting medicine in a hospital. The absolute jumble whirl of IVs, which chemo goes in first and when, what damn excuse is up for, like, whatever..... I can tell when my consciousness locks up and I have to ask for a time out. Sweet nurse Sharon has just stepped out to write a timeline of the 6th series of changes for today. One of the things I like about her is that she explains all of these things with effervescence and educational excellence. I go in and out of those moments however where I just can't take another bite. Thankfully I can raise my hand and say, "Please. Say it again slowly. You lost me 2 minutes ago, and that was a busy 2 minutes."

I'll probably interject medical details rather than step up to some imagined podium as a sickness/wellness expert, but here's what I'm getting: Idarubicin (Idamycin) for 3 days and Cytarabine (Ara-C) for 7 days. At some time that is not right this split second, I'll give a few hoots and groans about side effects, how it works, how it doesn't.... all that. Without getting too gruesome, of course. I'm the girl who had to pump herself up to take ibuprofen for muscle pain. While I pour all manner of vitamins, minerals, herbs and health potions down me gullet, I am not a great fan of medicine.

Well, it's time to bring on the medicine. Swallowing it would be bad enough, but I spent my 2nd night not with Prince Charming but hooked up to an IV pole. Which hums and burps every 2 minutes (I love what Jay L. wrote about "invasive beepy things.")... and then starts this whimper when a millidrop of air gets in the line. This pea princess is getting a run for her money, let me tell you. 

So aside from a doctor who at least has the balls to drop my visit because another patient had an emergency (although he's a butt for not phoning, harUMPH).... I go in and out of coping. I have much to say, more to write, and this morning I woke up crying. Courage and terror do some ghostly courtly dance with no caller. Sometimes I remember that for the most part, I believe that God is calling it and that our Dance is real and even good. 

It's still totally fucking surreal. 

Bless you all for prayers and contact

This is so not what I desired or expected. 

I found it rather amazing that I could even blast out a group email to all of you when the news was delivered by Dr. Pfister yesterday around 10:30 am. After the punkiness following Thursday's bone marrow aspiration (my 2nd in a year) - I mean, I am such a sensitive little flower and recovering from a needle in one's butt bone just takes time! - I had refound a jolt of mojo. "I don't think it's leukemia," I mused. "A week in the hospital at most, then I'm heading off to Moray, Scotland to spend some time with my precious friends Tony & Ali. Bring on wellness!" 

I knew the cut off point was 20% blasts. I wanted less than that. I won't be reporting or even obsessing about every nuance of the medical procedures. I knew I wanted a central place to say hey and receive more loving words from YOU all. Yes, I can get email here.... but I've been in less than 24 hours and there is no quiet or long lazy stretches of privacy. I am also attempting to teach the medical staff not to knock before they come in. I mean, come on. I'm in a freaking hospital already. I know you're coming in eventually! 

But I thought, "....14% blasts. Come on, body. Just be the MDS, we'll treat that, I'll perk up, and back into my life!"

It's around 40% blasts. Those are the bad leukemic cells. "But I feel fine!" I bleated to Dr. Pfister. "I could have acute leukemia right now and not know it," he said. "This is normal. But you don't have a choice. You need to be hospitalized immediately. You need to just get on this plane." 

"I'm an ex-pilot and this is not the plane I want to get onto," I told him. 

So I'm here. I tried to set up a Caring Bridge website but they frowned on my excessive size of photos for upload. And in a cranky moment I thought, "Screw you. I have a Google account and I'm using it." This isn't a touchy-feely Caring Bridge moan. But it's a place to keep you posted because once the chemo starts today, I'm guessing I might not be in the mood to babble on ad infinitum about it.

So here's where I am, and I would love cards. I adore cards. (I would adore walking out the back door but I am in vague agreement to this path for now). 

Alta Bates Summit Hospital

2 North/Oncology, Room 2368

350 Hawthorne Ave.

Oakland, Ca 94609

Their number: 510-655-4000

My cell phone number you should have. It's hard to accept calls when nurses 'n such are in the room, so I beg for way tons of lenience about that. Dear Bob left a singing blessing message on my voicemail, however. Oh how I savor such things!

I also have a Facebook page but so far ..... well, I'm there too. As you desire.....

A new sign on my door (Room 2368) says 'no flowers'. How rude. (But it doesn't say no chocolate, haha!). If I'm really going down for the count, and you like, go ahead and plant a flower or a little tree and send me some healing thoughts.

Thank you again for being my friends and praying for my wellness.