Interstice

The stone-lined pool on the back bailey has transformed from ice to liquid stillness. The sun glances across the mirror of its surface through a narrow wedge between retreating clouds and the horizon, past and future parting, an opening for reflection.

Six months ago, Cassandra stumbled into our camp stammering a prophecy of coming days of darkness, a prelude to the grendel's challenge, a prologue to chapters now read.

The siege has finally lifted. The final round has found its mark. During the night the grendel's army abandoned their camp, some deserting, others dispersing to their caves. Scars mar the hills and fields where fighting raged and army's slept, black reminders that will green and fade with time.

On battlement, the trebuchet lay in pieces, disassembled so the mage-general and his mercenary band can load it onto wagons in preparation for the next battle, someone else's battle. Stacked as unshaved timbers, it looks less martial, less deadly, perhaps a watchtower, a wellhead, the skeleton of a hall. One day.

Though the arsenal stands empty, the fighting has not ended. Hemogoblins still conduct commando raids at twilight. Cackling imps still pilfer her salt, occasionally stealing a memory. Minor elementals still torment her with flame without warning. Sentries remain posted. Pickets patrol beyond the wall. Where we thought to grant leave in the brief respite between phases, our timetable advanced with the enemy's retreat. Even as we clean up the detritus of siege, cloven shields, shattered swords, rent links of chain, we service our equipment for seven weeks in the field.

Wandering through the now open gates it is difficult not to feel a sense of loss. There has been purpose to the months of fighting, our time scripted, spontaneity reserved for sanity and riposte. The narrow spaces between buildings echo with ghosts of that activity, pale specters of the loneliness and fatigue. Shades whose translucent faces mouth a haunting question: is where we were still where we want to be? The answer requires time and contemplation, luxuries that remain in short supply.

With our eyes focused elsewhere, winter turned to spring, spring to summer. And midway to autumn before this campaign ends.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Simulation

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Busy morning, bloodwork with red cell booster, then the "simulation" for radiation, a CT scan to calibrate Karen's shape to determine exact dosages, beams and angles for the machine. Didn't take long, about 25 minutes. And three tattoos, ok, really just three blue dots around her torso to help align the beam.

The radiation center at St. Anthony's issued her a parking permit and bar code pass to scan when she arrives to alert the technicians in back. Interesting way to cut the waiting time for a daily medical appointment.

Karen starts radiation on Monday, June 18, two weeks after her last chemo treatment. So much for any break between chemo and radiation. She will receive 33 "fractions" or treatments, one each day excluding weekends and holidays. By my calculation that means radiation ends on or about Thursday, August 2. The doctor will do a check the final week to see where things stand.

For those of you keeping track at home, Karen's first radiation treatment is six months to the day after the first test that set these events in motion.

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Re: Phase 3, i.e. Reality Check

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Since there have been a couple questions, I thought I should clarify something from my last message.

We didn't have a problem with any of what the radiation oncologist said today. Generally, we like him. He was straightforward as most of Karen's doctors have been. The quotes may seem harsh out of context, but the reality is the doctor was doing his job in advising Karen and assessing her mental status.

In my mind, his statements were similar to the surgeon breaking the news that Karen had cancer without preamble. Or the medical oncologist advising us without hedging there was a 50% chance of recurrence over 5 years without chemo or radiation, then informing us that if we wanted to have children we had one week to decide so we could extract and freeze eggs for 5 years down the road. Guess we burned that bridge as we crossed it.

I included the quotes because for both of us they were a cold, hard reality check, one of many as this has gone on, the type that keep us up from 3 to 5 some mornings. More sobering than offensive.

As a final aside, I would guess the "A" word may have gotten a few people's attention. The undisputed fact is that chemotherapy and radiation do terrible things to a fetus. Regardless of where individual beliefs fall on the issue (and I recognize there may be many), I think the doctor was doing his best in making the consequences of our creating that condition abundantly clear. I intend no offense by saying that and intend to start no debate, not that there has been mention of either. Just a final CYA (or is that CMA?).

My apologies if my words or strange, irreverent humor have created either confusion or offense (insert standard media disclaimer here).

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Phase 3

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Bit of a rough night last night and the night before with the worst effects of chemo from the second set of drugs (Johnny, tell her about her parting gifts). At least the worst is finally over and chemo is mostly behind us, except for weekly bloodwork and shots as for the next 2-10 weeks, depending. After Monday morning's bloodwork, she should be back at work for the duration. From that point forward, she will schedule any necessary bloodwork and shots at St. Anthony's around the time of her radiation treatments.

Met with the radiation oncologist this morning. He, too, is young, just starting out. He seems nice enough, willing to share information and encouraging questions. Karen is going to have the treatments at St. Anthony's downtown so she can go to them from work.

They will set up an appointment next week, called a simulation, where they calibrate her on the machine with a CT scan and tattoo her for alignment. That will take about 45 minutes. It will take them a few days for the nuclear physicists to run the numbers.

Karen's radiation starts on June 18 (so much for any vacation between phases). Treatments are every day, no weekends or holidays, 10-15 minutes each, lasting 6 1/2 weeks. The main side effects for this are sunburn (to the point of skin breakdown), sensitivity and fatigue. The fatigue could start 2-3 weeks into treatment and last 2-4 weeks after the treatment end. It could be nearly unnoticed or knock her down. At least that should mean it has passed by the time we want to go to Dragon*Con over Labor Day.

On the up side, this doctor is not convinced that Karen has lymphedema. He is recommending a test about a month after radiation, basically going without the pressure sleeve to see what happens. If there is no swelling, perhaps it isn't there. This was an experiment we were intending on conduct anyway, but it is nice to have a doctor's "permission."

And as your Bonus Feature for this message, I'll share with you today's quotes from the doctor that definitely got our attention.

1. "So, you're ok with being sterile."

2. "Should you get pregnant, we would strongly recommend an abortion."

3. "When we're done, 5-7% of your left lung will be non-functional."

I don't think those need any further director's commentary.

Phase three and we hit the ground running. One day I hope to catch my breath.

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Final Tuesday

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The last Tuesday we have to truck across the country for a post chemo shot. Yeah! Another small milestone. Now we need to have the last Wednesday, Thursday, Friday of Karen feeling the effects of a chemo treatment and we'll have made real progress. Soon, very soon.

Oh, and a hair update. Yes, it is growing back. Right now it is maybe an eighth of an inch, nearly colorless and baby-fine. But there is just the barest hint of red, so she probably won't come back as a blonde or brunette, for which she is happy. It won't grow much if at all this week, but we should know more on texture in about a month.

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Round Is Up and on the Way

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A little tank jargon in the title. Means the ammunition is loaded and fired, but has not yet hit the target.

Last chemo treatment this morning. Everything went well. While we are celebrating a little, we are saving most of it for once Karen no longer feels the impacts, likely this Friday. The chemo treatment isn't the hard part, it's suffering through the days after. We'll cheer and dance more when that phase is past.

Karen still has a shot tomorrow, then weekly blood tests each Monday, and perhaps a shot to keep her blood counts up, for the next 2-10 weeks depending on how her bone marrow recovers. So her appointment schedule doesn't slow down much yet.

Karen has an appointment with the radio-oncologist this coming Friday morning. From what we heard the treatment should start in 4-6 weeks. That treatment will last 5-8 weeks, every day except weekends. We are scheduling it with the radio-oncologist recommended by her medical oncologist. That will be down at St. Anthony's so she can drive over each day from work. Fatigue is the largest side effect we've been warned about, the severity of which depends on the individual. We'll know more after Friday.

We are trying to decide whether we can sneak away somewhere for a few days between chemo and radiation, since we might not get another chance until Labor Day or later. We are considering a last minute cruise out of Tampa, but have yet to decide. We are also considering some sort of get together/celebration once radiation is finished, likely sometime in September. That we'll have to play by ear depending on how she feels and how quickly she recovers. Perhaps the end of chemo might call for an interim celebratory lunch/dinner gathering sometime in a couple weeks, perhaps at Horse and Jockey or Moon Under Water (Mmm, Boddingtons, mm, Blue Moon Belgian Ale). We'll keep you posted.

That's pretty much this week's update. No more all day Mondays. Yeah!

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Ghost

I am the ghost that roams the battlements, waiting for the final preparations to begin, waiting for this siege to end.

The battle is not over once the last shot is fired. It takes time for the round to become effective, time for her to recover from its effects. The siege is finished when all our gates to stand unbarred, the main as well as the posterns. Only then will the first phase of our celebrations begin.

I pace the walls in anticipation, wondering how to chronicle this phase of her journey without relating some of my own. Like a child playing hide and seek, I know more of me has been visible than I would care to believe. Though I close my eyes as I write this, it helps only in my mind.

In the yellow light of twilight, I review my equipment one final time. For months, a satchel with provisions has lingered near the postern, easily snatched for fighting. Experience has winnowed its contents to the essentials, a handful of rations, a flask of water, a few squares of chocolate, a tiny apothecary, cotton to shield my ears from the noise of battle, a pad and pencil to note reconnaissance and orders, a book to relieve the inevitable waiting boredom. Tucked through one strap hangs my only armor, a padded jersey emblazoned with the name of a foreign land to ward against the cold. The mage-general's magic strips the air of warmth as did the captain-general's before him. At times its hood lends me anonymity to watch and listen unobserved, a brief refuge from the flurry of activity on the battlements to note my observations. A steaming flagon remains my only weapon, a caffeinated potion that keeps my eyes wide and my senses sharp, a witches’ brew of coffee and cocoa laced with sugar, like the experience, both scalding and bittersweet.

It is hard to know which has been more difficult, the weeks of ceaseless fighting or a break just long enough to restore a few days of normalcy before the battle resumes, shattering the illusion into a cracked and jagged reflection of reality. These furloughs, while welcome, serve as both history and foreshadowing, reminders of what we have lost and what we hope to regain.

I am the ghost that roams the battlements, clinging to living in hopes of being made whole or dispelled and finally allowed to rest.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III