Appointments 2

----- Original Message -----

Ugh, a long day of appointments. Karen's bloodwork and follow-up with the medical oncologist took 2.5 hours. They were very busy with chemo patients, as some Monday's are. We barely had time for lunch before we had to take the cats in for their annuals.

The doctor has Karen starting on Tamoxifen for her hormone therapy, at least initially. She has blood tests scheduled in 3 months that determine whether she is pre- or post-menopausal. If she is now post, then he will change drugs to Arimidex. They work differently. One is effective for pre- the other for post- in preventing estrogen from either binding or being created. He listed off a bunch of scary, but unlikely side effects. He also asked if she wanted to start on anything to control her hot flashes, but she decided to wait unless they got worse.

As the doctor was checking her scars, she pointed out a nodule that had come up from a ridge on the scar from her axillary lymph nodes. He ordered an ultra-sound on Friday just to make certain it is only scar tissue.

For the next year, Karen will see the medical oncologist once every 3 months. For the second year, it will be every 4 months. After that, every 6.

The good news is that the port can come out as soon as she can schedule it with the surgeon. That might be able to be done in the office, which is creepy but makes it easier. She'll call the surgeon tomorrow to set that up.

I think that it for the moment.

Karen has her follow-up with the radio-oncologist Thursday morning, which I will also likely go to, as I will to the ultrasound on Friday. Busy week.

----- End Original Message -----

Tour

On her final day within the grendel's lair, I tour the laboratory of sorcerer-engineer.

Beyond the entrance, a sacrifice upon the wall in an illuminated style reminds me we have entered another religious enclave. In a simple cell, she exchanges her armor for a rough-spun robe, her weapons and equipment guarded under lock and key.

A choir monk, a sorcerer-technician, walks me through the checklist of spells he prepares while training a novice and replacement. A heavy metal door leads to a lead-lined vault sealed against legions of tiny, conjured demons, nines of millions in number, who can know no escape for the havoc they would wreak upon this world. She is positioned at the center of the armillary sphere that fills this room. It lifts and tilts on ponderous, whirring gears as they align it under mirrors reflecting calibrated shafts of light. A template is fitted to focus the fiendish magic. Numbers and symbols scroll through the air above her head, glowing, scarlet and angry. We retreat to safety before hoards of evil gremlins become unleashed.

The control room is carved to resemble a Norse rune called the Gateway, a thorn upon a rose marking Thor's domain where giants and demons stagger under his hammer blows. Each station faces a different chamber, one for penetrating demons, another for the superficial. Sorcerer-technicians scry upon her through crystal balls to monitor her progress, possessing no wards powerful enough to allow anyone to stand beside her. The demons have eaten through two apparatus with their vitriolic dispositions. Both will be replaced before the moon has turned.

The chamber is darkened, a button pushed, the magical accelerator uncovered and unchained. Its beam is set into motion, its ray invisible to our eyes. No torches dim, no candles flicker. Only a red lantern is raised above the threshold to remind us not to enter. The monks and sisters observe a moment of silent contemplation for the instants that the witching lasts.

And she is free.

She rearmors quickly before we depart. At the gate the lay sister who greeted her every morning from the tollhouse assigns an angel to perch upon her shoulder, a golden reminder of an ordeal now both judged and passed.

On the journey home, concentric rings spread across glassy pools of water with each drop of rain falling from a leaden sky like unshed tears of joy.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Final Update

----- Original Message -----

Radiation is done! Yeah! Treatment is finally over! WooHoo!

And we even get to go to Dragon*Con in Atlanta. Yippee!

Now things enter a maintenance phase, much less week to week or day to day. After eight months, we are finally free from a schedule.

I've decided not to send any further updates. In summary, Karen has a follow-up with the medical oncologist and the radio-oncologist in two weeks (8/13 & 8/15) and a follow-up with the surgeon in November. The port should be removed either near the end of this year or the beginning of next. She will take Tamoxifen daily for five years as an extension of chemotherapy. There will be tests and scans to make sure nothing is coming back. That's how it lays out today.

I have tried to thank you each individually for the things you've done during all of this. But in case I missed someone... Thank you for the cards, the plants, the flowers, the thoughts and prayers. Thank you for the letters, the phone calls, the visits, the e-mails. Thank you for the knitting and the hats. Thank you for the food, the meals that stocked our freezer, the lunches, the dinners, the coffees, the sunset. Thank you for the books. Thank you for the bear. Thank you for the all gifts. Thank you for the invitations even if we couldn't always accept. Thank you for the offers of assistance. Thank you for watering her plants and keeping her office rodent free. Thank you for taking care of the cats so we can go to Atlanta. Thank you for offering to stay behind so we could get away. Thank you for waiting with me that first time.

And a few special people to note, though I'll spare them the embarrassment of naming names. The one in the Golden State who we clung to as hers and Karen's treatments progressed. Two in the Bay Colony, the one who e-mailed Karen every day, and the one who picked me up each time I fell down. In the Sunshine State, the one who called on Sundays while Karen was home, and the two who came out for coffee every other week. In the chat room, the one who had walked Karen's path before and whose support, advice and encouragement eased her transition from cancer victim to cancer survivor. I hope you each know who you are as your company made this adventure tolerable on its darkest days.

When all this started, Karen asked me to send out these updates. Most of you asked to be kept informed. Some never did but I sent them anyway. I tried to take notes at each appointment, partially for us, partially to be able to relate what I had learned. I took the responsibility seriously, second only to taking care of Karen. Updates were usually written after getting her settled, but before my own food or sleep.

The creative messages attempted to put into words what we were going through and the impressions that it left. Though they were partially my own distraction and more for Karen's entertainment than anyone else's, those, too, I tried to get them out a timely manner. Many got started in waiting rooms throughout the county. They each took about three days to complete. The voice and language surprised even me. More received them than ever asked. Two more and those chronicles are complete. Then only nine will receive my ramblings unless I hear from others.

Now that my duty has been discharged, I return you to your own regularly

scheduled adventure. Thanks for sharing the path on ours a while.

----- End Original Message -----

(This was the last update sent out to the full e-mail list. The remaining updates went out to a handful of friends and family who were still interested).

Quick Update

----- Original Message -----

Looks like Karen's last few treatments are proceeding well. No new side effects, just some of the same ones as all along. She's not too tired, which is good.

Monday's bloodwork saw her white count fall back below normal, though the nurses didn't seem concerned or give her a booster. Her red count was also "low" but at least close to normal range. Another check in two weeks, at the same time we see the oncologist.

Looks like our sci-fi convention in Atlanta may be off the table for us. We're having trouble finding anyone to come in to take care of the cats while we're away. Something Karen had been looking forward to.

----- End Original Message -----

(Immediately after I sent that, the friend we were going to Dragon*Con with offered to stay behind to take care of the cats so we could go,. Then another friend stepped in to look in on them so he didn't have to and could come with us).

The Lair

We enter the final battle having tracked the grendel to its lair. Fetid air wafts from the entrance, bleached bones litter the darkened grotto beyond like an ossuary.

Before she proceeds, the sorcerer-engineer measures her to ensure she can squeeze through the cleft in the rock, remarking her in woad to reinforce the magic symbols already upon her side. I step back as he floods the cave with the final bursts of his scintillating ray, knowing it is too dangerous for me to accompany her any farther. Only she may enter the cave before us. Only she may slay the beast within. This battle will be settled in the old way, hero against hero, leader against leader. Mano a mano, or literally, hand to hand.

Throughout this adventure, we have been fortunate in our encounters. We pray our luck perseveres until the battle ends. Fortune favors the bold though not always the brave. But, the dice are hot and continue to roll our way.

Many believe their God does not play dice with the world. There was a time when the gods openly diced with men, a time before they retreated into deed restricted communities behind abalone gates where security stations turn away any who might intrude. Then, the gods walked among us, gathering in the agora for a quick game where the stakes could wager a life against immortal fame for no more than entertainment. Now, they skulk the back-allies of the keep, weaving drunkenly between the arsenal and the data mine like homeless addicts searching for a cure.

Perhaps others roam beyond the shadow of the wall, much reduced and mumbling though just as capricious when they throw the bones. I wonder if one watches over her, protecting her like Athena or Apollo shielding their heroes during the ten year siege at Troy. I don't remember doing one a favor, don't remember asking one to load the dice. Just another debt accrued, another payment due, one no dwarven lord with bear.

As she crawls inside and disappears, the dice go into motion, tumbling off the woodwork before they hit the cloth. Time stops. The cubes hang above the table, circling, spinning, deciding.

Alone for the moment, I focus on my surroundings: a shallow bowl, carved from the hillside by some long dead giant's hand, blocked in by a pool both green and stagnant. A narrow path leads around and in with a craggy wall behind like a rising gray crescent moon. A stream trickles from a stone encased well with an adjacent cell for meditation, perhaps a blessing or a baptism, or just rest and refreshment before our hero delves into the fissure by its side. The site is ancient and holy, its floor unexpectedly vibrant and alive. Orchids, white with blushing tips, cling to rough and tumbled walls. I wonder how they survive on only rocks and air, but that is what life does, in expected places, in unexpected ways.

I climb the rude stair that leads to the top of the hill where I can see across the straights to the caers and eyries and snowcapped mountains where griffins dwell. Up here lie the cairns of unnamed heroes shrouded with drooping bluebells that silently toll their forgotten deeds with each passing breeze lifted from the sea. Perhaps a benevolent god pauses to listen as it wanders this headland as it has since time began.

Part of the grendel's magic is induced amnesia. When she emerges from its lair, she will not remember where the dice have settled, whether she has slain the dragon or wounded it into sleeping, passing the years within it own contented dream. Either way, I will show her to this place before we depart for home. From here, we can watch the sun rise and set over water, passing the day in beauty and the peace that stillness brings.

Behind the veil, the dice clatter to a rest beyond our sight. The battle now has been won or lost, and we eagerly await the outcome.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

The Boost

----- Original Message -----

Today was Karen's setup for "the boost," the last week of radiation where they target the tumor sight specifically with direct radiation. They took more measurements and marked another place around the scar, though this time drawn with only purple, permanent marker.

This one goes a little different. Up to now, they have been using protons at a glancing angle for radiation. Now they switch to electrons with a straight on shot. The electrons don't penetrate like the protons, maybe 1/2 inch into her ribs, but not into the vital organs.

Other than that, things are still going well. Not as much redness as the doctor expected, though it could continue to develop for a week after treatment stops. The boost will likely increase that. Her fatigue has lessened after the red cell booster last week.

The techs seem to like the radio-oncologist. They say he is one of the most on-time doctors they have ever worked with and generally a nice guy (of course, he's a sci-fi fan. How could it be otherwise?)

On a logistical note, I'll probably only send out 2 or 3 more updates. One next week after radiation is over (next Thursday, yeah!). I'll be going with Karen that day and she may take it off so we can celebrate after. Possibly one each following after the follow-ups with the radio-oncologist (8/8) and the medical oncologist (8/13) though I may combine the two.

For those who have been receiving the creative messages, there are three or four of those still in the queue, which should go out over the same period. If anyone wants the full compliment of creative chronicles, either Karen or I can handle the request. At some point I will do something more with them, though I'm not sure what quite yet. At some point they may appear on a website, though I'm not sure when that will happen.

Thanks for bearing with my sometimes chatty updates (like this one), especially those of you who don't know me that well. I know for those who work with Karen, it may have been strange hearing from me with her back at work. It has given me something to do during all of this other than focus on the negatives. I've found some peace in the creative messages even if it may not seem so.

That's it for this week. One more week to go and the day to day of this adventure is done.

----- End Original Message -----

Exchequer

The adventure is nearly over but for the counting.

Deep beneath the data mines lie the stone-lined vaults of the exchequer, pale and patterned gray, echoing and empty. For years we have maintained a contract with a dwarven lord, complete with provisions against bad stars and ruinous undoings, subsidizing his excavations in exchange for his fiscal expertise. Each month we navigate the maze of tunnels that lead to the hall of this mountain king where his agents pay our factors with script and promissory notes until more ore is processed and new coins minted.

From atop his granite dais, he directs an empire of which we are only an insignificant acre, arranging payments, brokering munitions, procuring provisions all discounted in bulk. He negotiates like a miser, mean as a magpie atop its pile of sparkles. He engages a syndicate of mischievous German house gnomes, moneylenders, coin-changers, pawnbrokers, who dole out silver to impatient lines of mercenary henchmen and sorcerers' apprentices. They are immune to threats and coercion, demanding precise protocol in their interactions.

We receive regular reports as transactions are booked and parchment pushed from pile to pile. Every newt's eye is classified, each ounce of bat's wool catalogued. Adders' forks are coded and blind-worms' stings collimated. Golems and trebuchets are itemized down to the eyelashes and strands of hemp. Each herb, each poultice, every potion that boils and bubbles is checked and cross-referenced to ensure the proper procedures and eliminate duplication before it garners the appropriate mark on the appropriate page of his personal Doomsday Book, where even jots and tittles bear a price.

Like a crouching spider at the center of this web of collation, the byzantine Nibelung lord remains still and sensitive to the vibrations of each strand and cross-thread of his financial network, his beard barely twitching as the confetti chaos flies around him, sprinting into action only once gold brushes against his sticky snare.

Practicing a proxy war game, he pits supply against demand on our behalf. His ink-smudged clerks, armed with quill and abaci, perch atop their desks, islands in a tumultuous sea of paper. Singing pirate ditties and brandishing their pencils, they prepare to hop island to island along the archipelago and storm the coastal fortress constructed of account books, their battle-map resembling Kafka's office, if Kafka were Bedlam's official CPA.

Each month we emerge from the maze slightly more befuddled and confused, never remembering the precise progression of tunnels in or out. The surface air clears our heads and slowly brings contentment. No wizards pound the postern gate, no mercenaries tap swords to hands upon the bailey, no pitchforked peasants threaten to storm the castle walls. Somehow the accounts of the exchequer remain in balance with this dwarf's twirling slight of hand choreographed like a ballet company of tiny angels pirouetting on a pin.

Slaying this particular dragon brings no hoard of treasure, no gold or magic rings, only reams of fine-printed, twenty-four pound paper that previously lined its cave.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III