April 23, 2006
On Saturday beginning at midnight, one-third of my Kidney commenced to die.
We all had been rejoicing at the happy news that I could go out into the world a bit more, and I was feeling quite energetic. Friday evening we joined friends for dinner, and at its completion the pain began. It was located on the left side of my abdomen, and as the night advanced, so did the pain.
Nurses and doctors repeatedly request a rating of pain, “where on a scale between one and ten?” They ask. Ever since giving birth to three children, I have used those final minutes of the birthing experience as my 10, and this time I spent many hours at 9+! 
The unrelenting pain had us at the Emergency Room at dawn and there I had the appalling challenge of drinking two glasses of the vile liquid required for a CAT scan. I had been vomiting all night, unable to keep any pain medications down, and now, with nausea sitting at the back of my throat, I was supposed to drink the Pinesol flavored concoction.
Our Emergency Room nurse was young and remarkably callus – she chirruped at us a little more loudly than you would talk to normal people, and she stood facing her computer screen entering needless information while I sat rocking back and forth in agony.
I finally said, “I am looking forward to the IV with the pain medications – soon, I hope” and she said loudly, “I’ll get to it pretty soon, I just want to enter some more things here . . .. I sure wish you could remember how many milligrams of Estropipate you’re on, etc., etc., etc.,” I did get enough fluid down so that the scan could go forward, and we were not surprised to hear that I would need to be hospitalized – though – We did not know what the problem was at this time.
The Emergency Room Doctor reported that a blood clot had been found in the Kidney, I would likely need blood thinners to dissolve it, and a hematologist would read the results of the scan and give a more thorough evaluation.
When I was taken to my room, we found that the Saturday staff at the hospital consisted of recently graduated young nurses, under the supervision of one more experienced nurse. They did not permit me to drink water because they did not know if surgery might be required. This resulted in dehydration, which in turn made all efforts to insert an IV very difficult. Finally, the hematologist on duty came in and says rather abruptly, “You lost a third of your Kidney, but don’t worry, you have one and two thirds left!” I said, “What? I love my Kidneys! Do you mean that this part of my body is gone forever?” The hematologist said, “That’s what I mean.”
I was told that an arterial blood clot formed on my left Kidney and as a result, the Kidney was deprived of blood. It died in 30 – 40 minutes from being deprived of blood. An arterial blood clot is quite rare, but I was told that I was fortunate in that this one took place in the smaller artery leading to the Kidney so only one third of the organ was lost.
Today, the blood samples are getting sent hither and yon, and the mysteries hidden within may be revealed – or not. Meanwhile my regime will now include a blood thinner, “for the rest of your life” and a patch containing a pain killer, “for several weeks – until the clot dissolves.” I will be hospitalized until the correct balance of blood thinner has been determined.
Charles and I look at one another and say, “what is happening now? Why this – another rarely seen event?” We hear, “Live by faith, my righteous ones” and we go on – it is the only way we can.
Cancer is a cruel disease. Yesterday when we went to the oncologist’s office for the second shot of Vidaza in this fourth round, we met for the second time a man with whom we had become acquainted through the choir at First-Plymouth. He and his wife were also planning on going to Russia with the tour this summer, and unexpectedly one day, there they were in the chemo room. He was just beginning chemotherapy for a newly discovered cancer; this time they were returning after his gall bladder had been removed. Now the cancer in his body is moving aggressively on, and he is facing new, experimental treatment. He is fiercely fighting this terrible interloper, and it is a monumental struggle indeed. Meanwhile, my cancer is slow and quiet, stealthily removing stem cells bit by bit and without pain. 
Spring is at its zenith, with all growing things stepping out, pushing forth, and beginning anew. The greens are still vivid and vigorous, the plum blossoms hide the thorny tree stems, and the willow branches seem to enjoy moving about with every passing wind current. These days require celebration because they are so fleeting. We went to the favorite grocery store in Lincoln, and for the first time since Christmas, I was participating in an activity which had been routine and unconsidered in my past life. Charles was very patient as I piled all sorts of lovely viands into the basket, and the joy of viewing all the food choices was grand. My energy has not yet begun to diminish from the chemo, and the cooking and baking activities are calling out, loud and clear.
“Earth and all stars! Loud cheering people! Loud praying members! Sing to the Lord a new song! He has done marvelous things. I too will praise him with a new song!” These hymn phrases are moving through my mind, and your expressions of happiness at my news of improved health bring them forth in full organ and joyful congregational song. Thank you for making the sound grow and grow! 
Today was a memorable day. When we reviewed my progress with the doctor at the oncologist’s office this AM, I found that I was removed from the endangered species list, because for the first time, the word “chronic” was used. In January, I was diagnosed with a disease that had no presently known cure, and frantic family searches on the Internet repeatedly found the statistics that said average life expectancy would be under a year. We began the Vidaza, a chemotherapy too recently developed to have a large history, and the new life began. Now, after three full cycles, the red blood cells have continued to increase, along with my energy, and the platelets are in the normal range. The white blood cells remain puny in number, but the neutraphils have recovered enough to be able to put up some defense against infections. I even look healthy, which is something to remark upon when one sees the general gathering in the waiting room. I have been given the go ahead for some work in the garden, and for going out again into the public realm. 
A fable: In an inner room of a large drug company, a young person is seated at a desk to work at one assignment. She must find names for new drugs as they are developed; the names must have some connection with the purpose of the drug but also must roll off the tongues of doctors and patients alike. One of her assignments was to find a name for Pegfilgrastim – Injectable; Neupogen had already been used as the name for the competitor’s drug offering which had to be given daily. Her company’s drug had the feature of one injection lasting for ten days. She thought and thought, and while she was thinking about names, she was scribbling in her atrocious handwriting on her desk pad. She also had the assignment to find a name for Eszopiclone, a new sleeping aid. After going through Neulongten and Neucellup, she finally scribbled Neulasta. She liked the word so much she wrote it many times, large, small, and with wildly florid lettering. Just then, the head of the Eszopiclone team came by and looked at her note pad. “I like it!” he cried, “it’s genius. . . it’ll sell millions!” He carefully wrote the word “Lunesta” into the palm of his hand, and beaming, went on his way. And so it was that the young woman, through her terrible handwriting, named two drugs with one thought. 
Tomorrow is my last day of “no injections” for a while, because chemotherapy resumes on Wednesday. Time appears to move differently – speeding along in the joy of days that are simply commonplace. I didn’t go to church on Easter Sunday morning after all because my body informed me upon awakening that this would be a quiet day of slower movement and inner contemplations. Charles played his Easter’s opening prelude for me on Good Friday eve after the church service and after people who left in silence were long gone. It was grand and one he had not played before; (César Franck’s “Piece Heroique”). It began quietly and built up to huge and arresting chords that seemed to express very nicely the movement from a still morning’s visit to an unexpectedly open tomb to the monumental joy of “Jesus lives! The victory’s won!” When Charles returned from the three services at Plymouth, he carried with him a gift for me from the TV crew – a DVD of the service that we then enjoyed later in the afternoon. We watched and listened sipping tea and eating apple pie, making it a perfect commemoration of the day.
This evening we will celebrate the sixth birthday of Kira, our second oldest granddaughter. She is full of energy and loves “sparklies” above all things, so I went through the costume jewelry that ends up tucked behind other things and found some to give to her in several dear little boxes lined with handkerchiefs that I brought home from my mother’s house after she died. There must be about fifty of the latter, some everyday prints, some embroidered, some with black tatting around, presumably for funerals. They are nicely ironed and consigned to a forgotten past, so I selected some printed in bright flowers and hearts for this occasion.