It Starts All Over Again

My Dearest Love,

I went to see my oncologist on Thursday. The news was as expected, and not good. My lymphoma is on the move again. Of course you knew that. I told you shortly before you passed over that I would not be far behind. You pooh-poohed me, too busy preparing for your own trip I imagine.

I still have not told the kids. I wanted to be sure, have the CT scan again, meet with the onc. Now I have no more excuses. I asked my onc to look at a third alternative to the previously known treatment options (CHOP - which pushed my hair out, made everything taste like garbage, and only got me 10 months of relief; and Fludaribine - which was easier to tolerate but really nailed my immune system). I want to know if there is anything out there in the experimental world that might offer something. When he comes back to me with the answer, I will schedule a family meeting with Pat, Barb, the kids, and Pam if she is available. Doctor Steve even offered to be part of the meeting, which I thought was very touching. There, I will lay out the scheme of things, the disease, the treatment options, what all of that means, and then let the kids be a part of the selection process on what we will do.

I don't want to put them through another long, drawn out ordeal like we went through with you. They don't deserve that (and I don't either). My priority is quality of life, not length. If I have a limited amount of time, I want it to be good - for me and the kids.

Kate and I went out to dinner and a show last night. We went down to one of our old haunts for dinner. Remember the Red Dragon? Do you remember that snowy night that we ended up there with Mikey and Mona? It was either Christmas Eve or New Years Eve and there was a big storm going on. We had the place to ourselves. It was a spur of the moment decision to go and we called Mikey and Mona and asked if they would meet us because they could walk there from their house.

Well, it looks pretty much the same - kind of a dive. My meal was forgettable too. I ordered General Tso's Chicken and was served something that I would have sworn was pork, but the waiter assured me it was chicken - just the dark meat. Hmmmm. Kate liked her Sweet n Sour Chicken however and we walked the block to the theater afterward in the steamy heat of our current weather pattern. I was in long sleeves and long pants and was walking very slowly, trying not to drench myself in sweat before arriving at the theater.

The weather was fitting however because we were going to a performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I wanted to see this performance because it had received rave reviews for Maggie's interpretation and I secretly wanted to see how Brick was done, having played that part myself twenty-five years ago - just before I met you, my love.

Kate loved it. It was very well done. The characters were spicy and despicable. The heat rising throughout the performance (both on stage and in the seats for the air conditioning mysteriously stopped working when the curtain went up). Personally, I thought my Brick was better, but then it was hardly an unbiased and objective assessment.

We drove home through the dark and Kate was mostly silent. She was quite tired having spent the last two nights sleeping over at her scout troop master's house and getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare for, and run, a large rummage sale to raise money for the troupe. So, she actually went to bed before me last night and is still sleeping (no surprise there).

I got a call from Joe yesterday that caused my neck to shrivel and prick up as the ghostly shroud of death wafted over the very tips of the erect hairs; sending me into a primal place of fear and helpless dread. Joe's voice sounded strange over the long distance connection as he faded in and out, making me wonder if he was calling from another plane already.

The story was not delivered in a clear, linear fashion. He sent it to me in bits and pieces - his voice husky from the ingestion of salt water. He was laying in bed with Pat, he said, and his legs felt very heavy.

He had been playing with Georgia, Rachael, and the other one who's name I am always forgetting. They were on a sandbar just off the beach on F8 Island where he and Pat were vacationing. You remember the spot.

He said something to me just as the connection was getting shaky. Something about an under tow and feet being pulled out from under them, and seeing each other drifting apart and away from shore.

There, the story also broke up into incoherent bits. There was a struggle and repeated attempts to get back to the sand bar only to be pulled away again. Pat was involved in some fashion, but Joe had to find a way to swim back to the shore by himself and enlist other adults to come to the rescue. No one on the shore could hear the cries of the children.

It was a parent's worst nightmare: children in danger and no way to try to save them. I kept telling myself that my son was talking to me, that he was all right, that he said the other children were all right, but I sat there with cold sweat running down my sides thinking how can this be. Anyway, the conversation ended. Joe needed to rest. I will call him again as soon as I am done writing this to you. Maybe it was you who lifted his legs and whispered encouragement as he struggled to gain the safety of the shore. He told me that he finally figured out how to swim the distance (you know Joe, swimming was never his strong suit). He lay on his back and did a modified backstroke until he felt the sand under his neck. Was that you?

I feel sick just thinking about it. What would I do if I lost another of us?

Where ever you are, I love you.

D.