Happy Thanksgiving

Jenny here.

The last holiday I feel like I remember was Halloween. I adore Halloween. Wil puts up with me and my antics and over the top decorations. He even does cheesy couple costumes that look ridiculous on a man his size. He shows concern over my need for perfect themed food.  That's love.

This year, in the midst of chasing the diagnosis, in my gut there was not necessarily a negative feeling, but something I can only describe as a knowing that Wil had cancer. Sure, the idea had been thrown out, taken back, tossed around. But as fall came closer I had this real feeling that life was about to change. Between grief and denial I threw myself at Halloween, spent hours researching do it yourself decorations I didn't already have (that included Craigslist mannequin trauma to him...it's a good story for another time!) and even more hours sorting out my stash of decorations and literally decking every inch of the house. I self medicated with Halloween I joked. It was more than that though. I never told Wil, but I had this sense that this would be our last Halloween party for awhile because the ground underneath our feet was starting to shift. Our last normal of 2013. Right before our party we had met with yet another specialist to talk about another biopsy. So I cut out more bats and hung more cobwebs and spiders and sheets. Grasping onto what pieces of our life B.C. that I could.

I was happy the day of our party. It was good to see family and friends. Wil's November biopsy was just hanging though, suspended and intertwined in it all. I really felt pretty numb. It's the last recognizable holiday though.

Have you ever been driving down the highway, 80 miles an hour, on a gorgeous day and just had a surreal experience...of feeling a stillness in sitting in your seat while feeling the bumps of the road, the mechanics of moving forward?  Have you looked at the clouds, the buildings, the other cars you pass, and had that knowing that you are passing quickly by the landmarks, yet inside your car there is no motion? The outside is smoothly gliding past. You are being pulled forward by moving pieces that unless you are a mechanic you don't understand the exact how of what is happening.

That's the best way I can describe how I felt through Thanksgiving (my birthday), Christmas, New Years. Life in facilities can feel like a capsule of stillness. Like time is standing still. Yet looking out the "window" time is actually sliding by. You are being pulled forward even while feeling still. It feels like Halloween was a million months ago but also like it was yesterday.

Wil had his follow up appointment with his oncologist today.

Side note:  I love UTSW. Have I said it enough?  BMT clinic and BMT unit are an oasis.  A private island of understanding. I have yet to meet a single doctor, nurse, tech, or patient that wasn't an instant blessing in this process. I am so appreciative of everyone who is keeping up with us. But it's these folks that get me, get Wil, get the process of muddling through this type of wicked cancer treatment like others can't. I know people want to understand. WE want you to be a part of the journey. All the same though, it's a journey I'm happy that most of you won't have to understand personally. Just as I'm blessed to not know first hand some of the different struggles you go through.

But BMT...With so few words we are connected with those strangers who we sit next to during follow ups.  We are the newbies on the block. But we are starting to recognize faces and names of other families there. In BMT land you are there for years, so it's a much needed, make shift family of sorts. While I've seen some of the sickest folks with rare cases, I walk away inspired, uplifted, and understood.  Today I lived vicariously through Cathy who is on year 2 of treatment, 150+ transfusions, and monthly trips to the Mayo Clinic, to Minnesota, to my homeland. They had trouble getting any vein to take blood from today because she has been stuck so many times. But while the nurses tried all their tricks, in beautiful detail she described the month of September in Rochester, as she watched the trees outside her hotel window turn from green to brilliant to brown to fall.

That's a long intro to what I really wanted to say when I was thinking about this post on my way home from work. What I wanted to say is that today, January 18th, Wil is coming home. 9 weeks in captivity are done.

No more holding on to Halloween memories. Thanksgiving has finally arrived.

Wil will be home for 3-4 weeks to finish liver recovery. His bilirubin was 2.7. While I had thought it was at 15 at one point, his oncologist showed me it had been in the 20's!  Our goal is to get to 1. He will return in 2 weeks for blood work but is being discharged on one medication and no insulin. Amazing. He will continue PT to gain strength. Then folks, it begins again.

The new regime of chemo will include 2 alternating cocktails (round A and round B). Each round will be 3 weeks, with 5 days inpatient each round while he is administered the drugs that we are counting on to save his life.

Until then, counts are good, which will allow for visitors, puppy cuddles, kid play time, and just lots of home hermit happiness. Wil is nervous. He has been in captivity so long the outside world is anxiety producing. I couldn't be more excited. In 14 hours my life, my love, will be back under home shingles where he belongs.  Happy Thanksgiving.