We tried to keep our composure but it was impossible. We said most of our goodbyes in the room so we could part quickly and avoid the deluge of emotions. It’s not just the pending separation this time, but all that falls during the in-between. At least three weeks apart, a month-long hospital stay, the pending sickness of the chemotherapy, and the transplant itself all combine to form an eclectic cocktail of uncertainty, fear, dread, excitement, and hope.
Another trip to Texas, another goodbye. This time it was in reverse. Christi left today to return to Kentucky to get back to our girls and start preparing to temporarily move our family to Houston later this month. I’m staying here. I have only a few appointments and could probably swing a quick trip home, but we’re so close to the transplant that it’s not worth the risk. Crowded airplanes and little sweet girls bring with them an increased chance of infection and another derailed stem cell transplant.
We were blessed to have a few days together here in Houston. The first two were filled with a biopsy, lumbar puncture (LP), MRI, CT scan, and a slew of other appointments, but then we had the weekend to rest. But, true to his nature, the enemy wouldn’t have it. Christi developed a cold, so we had to keep our distance from each other for last few days. Some of the lingering side effects from the radiation are disrupting my sleep and causing some general discomfort. Nothing serious, but enough to unsettle our time together—the last few days we’ll have with each other outside of a hospital for weeks.
The enemy might have snapped at our heels, but the God of peace has his foot on the snake’s head. The results of all of my pre-transplant tests were good, which means I am set to enter the hospital for the transplant next week. The bone marrow biopsy showed only 2% blasts, down from 4% last time. I am clinically still in remission and my blood counts are good overall. The only downer was the LP. First, I didn’t think I would have another one. Second, it showed a few “ill-defined cells,” which my doctor believes are dying blasts (a good thing). The implications are that I’ll have at least one more LP to confirm and potentially more chemo to my CNS. Pray that doesn’t happen. The important thing now is that it will not disrupt the transplant.
So now I wait. I only have a handful of appointments before admission day. I may see a movie or go to Starbucks, but mostly I’ll stay in the room to minimize my risk of infection. I’ll eat as much as I can since I’ll undoubtedly lose weight again from the chemotherapy. Hopefully I can squeeze in a few light workouts to strengthen my body a little. I’ve got a book to read, a blog to maintain, FaceTime with my girls, and the NFL playoffs to watch, so I’m not concerned about boredom.
From my current perspective, the next eight days seem to be the calm before the storm. The chemo will completely obliterate my immune system, even worse than before. The side effects can also be worse than I’ve experienced previously. The transplant itself will follow a week after I begin the chemotherapy and signals the beginning of a long, perilous recovery. There’s no medical guarantee that it will even work, although my hope doesn’t come from statistics. But still there is this strange feeling of comfort as long as I’m on this side of the transplant. I get one shot at it. Once it happens, then it’s all or nothing apart from miraculous healing.
I feel encouraged and hopeful now more so that at any point in this journey thus far. God continues to prove himself faithful to his promises. No doubt a storm is still looming over the horizon, but in this case the best way out is straight through it. There will be trying times ahead for my family and me, but we serve a God who calms the storms. He commands the winds and the waves. The storm may be fierce, but there is peace on the other side. That’s his promise. That’s our hope.
Praying daily
Thank you!
Lots of prayers from your home town!! we love you and your precious family. From Sally and the Social Services gang!
Thanks, Sally. Give my best to everyone there.
Praying, Jeff. We are believing for the best possible scenario all the way around and that in the end, God is glorified and you emerge with a power testimony. Blessings from KY and from your church family at ROL Foursquare Church! – PT
Thanks, PT.
Praying pal!
Thank you, Mike. I appreciate every one.