Hello Nasty

Chemo went well today. If the CT scan on Thursday reveals the right data to the docs, we'll be on track for surgery next week.

If we get the green light for surgery, this means Pablo will not receive chemo next Tuesday. Instead, it looks like he will get a blood transfusion on Tuesday, to prepare for surgery on Wednesday (Polly and I donated today; Jo Ann's dropping some O+ juice on Thursday). After surgery, we'll be rollin' hard up in a double-wide suite in le Tower de CHLA for the following 5-7 days. That's right, we'll be scanning the friendly skies lookin for fireworks on the 4th of July...and beyond. We're pretty excited to be going there. The AC rocks in that place.

Since this journey began on May 17, we've been running toward this magical date of June 26: the CT progress scan. The CT scan, we've thought, will show that the tumors have shrunk, or at least stopped prospering. We are still only filled with hope and absolute drive, and out all our intentions on that hand. Still, staring down the barrel at our 7:30 a.m. appointment on Thursday is much scarier than Jo Ann and I thought. Hearing Dr. Mascarenhas talk plainly and soberly about the myriad options we might be facing in our post-scan meeting with him is scarier than we thought.

Seeing Pablo running round the house naked this evening, his veins filled with Vincristine, without a care in the world or any awareness of what is going on inside him, is scarier than we thought. Of course, we don't want him worrying about any of this. It's just that juxtaposition of sweet and sour. It would get you choked up in a movie. When it's happening in your life, to your son...it's devastating. Nothing can change that. If you don't let all the emotions cycle in and out of you, it's the same game as if you were just walking around negative all the time. So we try to talk about this stuff when it comes up–between us, with friends, or with our support system at large. I went upstairs earlier, and Francine was consoling Jo Ann in the kitchen. She is having a very tough time with it this evening. I am trying–trying–to breathe through it. I cry when the tears come up. There's a Smiths lyric that keeps ringing in my head since the CHLA afternoon: "I've seen this happen in other people's lives and now it's happening in mine." The song is called "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore," off Meat Is Murder. If you know that song–if you've had occasion to have lived that song–you are probably reaching for the tissue box right now.

Wow. Was that a bummer way to go? Sorry. I get on a wave, and just take it.

I am fried. We are fried. It's been a long day, gave blood and got cookies and juice (heaven), gotta pick up Mr. Naked Boy Lion off the couch upstairs and put him in bed. It's late, I need some sleep.

But, wait–how can I tell you a goodnight story without showing you some pictures?

I have an irrational fear of needles. The slight smile on my face tells you that Francine's tried+true Aussie trick–blowing on the needle as it punctures the skin–was a HUGE success! BTW, that bag o' blood was HEAVY!

Above: the Blood Platelet machine. Those of you who've signed up to donate will get to know that thing real well.

Below: the back cover of the Beastie Boys album Hello Nasty. In my delirious state, I thought the platelet extractor device looked like it. Now I'm not so sure. But any time I get to make a music ref on the blog, I take it.

Maybe it looks more like the Chicago El System below?