beginnings

Mitchell's treatment journey officially began on Thursday. He experienced the first of what I'm sure will seem like millions of blood draws. Incidentally, the gentleman drawing Mitchell's blood had the shortest legs I'd ever seen on an adult. You can't really tell from the pic, but they were remarkably brief, his legs.

We then proceeded to a Chemo Meeting with one of the chemo nurses at the AZ Cancer Center. After the powerpoint we were able to tour the Infusion Pods where patients receive treatment. Strangely it was extremely reminiscent of that Freshman Orientation meeting and tour you attend right before you start college. Same nervous feeling. Same quiet conversation with the person you came with about the idiotic question/comment the person over there just made. Same anticipation about seeing just where you'll be spending so much of your time and how it all works. As we drove home turning over the myriad of mild to horrific side effects of chemo drugs, we made small talk. Effectively avoiding the giant treatment elephant riding in the car with us.

Friday was ridiculously busy. 8 am brought ambulatory surgery at UMC for the implantation of Mitchell's Power Port. Standing in the over bright, cramped pre-op room with the business-as-usual prep nurse, Mitchell's nervousness was palpable. The resident performing the procedure looked like she would be more comfortable hanging out in the quad on campus then tunneling into my husband's vascular tissue surrounding his heart. The procedure was over fairly quickly; it only took about 50 minutes. Mitchell was deliberately donning his clothes when I entered his curtained post-op space. He looked dazed but well. The nurse reviewed the discharge notes, directing most of his spiel to me as I was the only one of us who would recall his words.

By the time we finally reached the Cancer Center, we were over 45 minutes late for our appointment with Mitchell's oncologist. We waited briefly before our Olive Garden style pager lit up and began to vibrate, instructing us to "Please proceed to the Pitt Pavilion." Dr. Brown went over Mitchell's PET scan with us. Looking at the 11x14 glossy photo of Mitchell's insides, the dark spots cover his liver were instantly obvious. We were able to count 7 lesions riddling his liver, in addition to two smallish spots on his right lung and left pelvis.

Phrases like "Metastatic Disease", "Stage IV", "still a good chance", "additional treatment protocols" and "radio static surgery" were uttered. People always talk about feeling numb during times like these. I was hoping for numb. Instead I felt hyper sensitized. My eyes turned into big watery saucers. My eyes boring into the doctor's shiny bald forehead. The baby continues to kick and turn. Another doctor barges into the room, unaware that it's occupants are in the midst of receiving earth shattering news. With a loud "OOPS", she exits. Dr. Brown seems to not notice. As I always, I begin asking questions. Taking notes. It helps to make me feel grounded. Mitchell is almost completely silent.

By 1 we are in the infusion pod, the dextrose with the steroid and meds for anxiety and nausea are hung. Later the first chemo drug is administered. The treatment takes the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Mitchell is able to sleep for the majority of it. The stress of that morning's surgery and everything else taking it's toll. People come in and out. Cancer patients of all diagnoses receiving treatment. I'm envious of the 20-something with breast cancer who is in and out in under an hour, talking and laughing loudly the entire time.