September 11, 2023
This is an excerpt from Alligator Wrestling in the Cancer Ward, the book I published earlier this year describing my 83-day journey through the wonderland of Acute Myeloid Leukemia, chemotherapy and other quite nasty surprises.
I can tell you, the hospital is a great place to go if you want to get sick. Everything you never wanted is waiting on some surface there for you.
The staff, however, are some of the best people on this planet.
What follows is a description of my bone marrow biopsy readout on July 15, 2022, after the first phase of chemo had been completed. This has become known as The Pirate Story.
*****
July 15 With the 7/3 Cytarabine and Idarubicin Induction phase complete, it was time for the bone marrow biopsy. If one were looking for a Moment of Truth, this might rank right up there near the top.
The procedure meant they would bore a hole in the side of my rump with an auger, extract some of the soft and juicy bone marrow, feed it into a machine and let it sort out the contents. They were looking for the presence (or rather the absence) of “blasts,” those immature genetically deviant FLT-3 (pronounced “flit three”) white blood cells.
If the marrow contained less than five percent blasts, they could declare the chemo had worked, and the leukemia was – for now – in remission. Otherwise... well, they never told me what would have occurred otherwise. Perhaps another 7/3 round of chemo, or we would advance directly to a bone marrow transplant.
The biopsy itself produced nowhere near the discomfort I had expected. The prospect of a burly fellow turning a stainless-steel T-handle instrument (like the tap-and-die set I inherited from the farm) to invade deep into my hip was enough to challenge any tough guy. But as it turned out, the site was deadened so well that there was only a twinge or two when he reached the sweet spot.
Well and good... and then the wait for results.
There was sort of a lot hanging on those results.
We entertained grandkids. They were a little frustrated and perhaps intimidated by the hospital room and that they had to keep their distance from Grandpa, but they seemed to take it in stride. My CB [Caring Bridge] journal entry from July 15: I tried to explain to Corbin (g-son aged 8) that hospitals get all their blood from pirate battles bc we all know that pirates are always getting into sword fights. All their extra blood is collected in wooden barrels and shipped to various hospitals and kept in the basement. When some is needed they go down there and ladle out some into little plastic bags. He looked at me somewhat askance.
Granddaughter Elizabeth (age 6) wanted to bring a flower or a potted plant for Grandpa; sweet of the little princess to think of me. But her mother explained that living plants are not allowed because of the potential presence of mold or fungus. Elizabeth, non-plussed but still pitching, asked, “So then, would a picture of a flower be okay?”
“I am sure it would,” her mother replied, straight-faced. “If you draw a picture for Grandpa, that would be just as good.”
So she did; it included flowers, grass, a few clouds, and a yellow sun with rays, which I was sure satisfied my minimum daily requirement for vitamin D. Lynn posted it to the wall of my room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Other Voices
Today, I get to do a hospital visit. Not have to… I get to. Why the enthusiasm, you ask? Because it’s fascinating…. no, it’s enlightening, to watch hospital staff enter a cancer patient’s room with obvious smiles on their mask-covered faces. Now, I’m guessing they do this for all their patients, but in Curt’s room, something about it is different. Almost like a God-ordained, two-way connection always takes place. And that is a gift to be able to see!
– Justin, Pastor
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After the family was gone, two nurses returned. It was not time for vitals or meds, making this an unusual visit. One came right to the point. “I cannot give you complete results of your biopsy,” she said, “but I have seen the preliminary report. I wanted to tell you that your bone marrow is normal; no cancer is present; all is good.”
I stared at her, wide-eyed, unspeaking. She continued. “The doctor will be in tomorrow to cover it with you, but we thought you should know as soon as we heard.” She smiled. “So don't ask me any technical questions about it because I won't know the answers. But we wanted you to know.”
I missed the last part of her short speech, overcome with sudden emotion. I had not realized until then the enormity of the stress I felt, wondering if this chemo gig had worked. The grandkids’ visit, the pirate story, the flower picture, and the cancer readout did their work: I wept shamelessly and shook uncontrollably as she held my hand.
I am such a wuss.
*****
If you are interested in a copy of the book for yourself, or as a gift for someone else, there are several ways to get it. You may order the paperback directly from my website alligatorpublishing.com for a signed copy.
It can also be ordered wherever books are sold (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, about everybody else), and can be had not only as the paperback but also as an audio version (use your Audible points) and eBook.
You can also get it shipped to you free with your annual subscription to The Alligator Blog. Use the Subscribe or Upgrade button in this email, and you will then receive an additional email with instructions on how to order.
You may already have a copy. There is probably someone else in your life who would benefit from the lessons in Alligator Wrestling. With your membership, we’ll send a signed copy to whomever you choose.
Thanks for reading The Alligator Blog. It is a pleasure to share it with you. Curt
Share this post