Running For My Life - The Verdict

Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I’d been writing for months about running, why it’s cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona.  That is until my life took a hard left turn with a diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in 2009. I've appreciated your encouragement of my sometimes hard, sometimes funny journey, and how I used running and the lessons it taught me to make sense of it all. You can start at the beginning here.

February 10

My last treatment day has arrived and as usual I’m in early for blood work – but there is an uneasy feeling in the air today.  The doctor is unusually late and I’m nervous about missing my start time in the chair.  Again, my blood levels are perilously close to not allowing me to move on to chemo, but the combination of several factors puts me just over the limit.

I’ve been envisioning this day for months.  In fact, it has been the benchmark of my treatment – ‘If I can just get to treatment six, everything will be okay,’ I tell myself. I want this day to be great, to be excited about the last ‘lap’ of my ‘race’ against chemo.  However, there is a new nurse on the floor, someone I’ve not seen before and she is in TRAINING.  No offense but I don’t want to be a practice patient for anyone, especially at the end of all this crap.  She has a hard time finding a vein and can’t get the blood to draw back into the needle like it’s supposed to. She tries twice before I demand an experienced nurse to find the vein. I’m upset and angry because this is supposed to be a good day. But unfortunately the tone has been set for the rest of the day…

Ongoing

I’m not sure what I expected on this last treatment.  I feel so far away from the optimistic patient from October.  I’m angry, pissed and yet excited to be here.  I didn’t really believe that just because I had my last treatment that things would miraculously improve.  However, I did delude myself into thinking that once my 6th treatment was done, things would take a turn for the better. But I’m exhausted, run down and generally in poor spirits the entire three weeks after treatment.  My hair is still gone, eyebrows and eyelashes non-existent and a sunken face in the mirror to remind me I’m a chemo patient. I try not to go anywhere I don’t need to. I realize that the true ‘red letter’ day would be March 4, the day after a non-existent 7th treatment.  But chemo isn't done with me, wants to show that it will not leave me as easily as I'd hoped.

Two weeks after treatment I suffer through some of the worst side effects I’ve ever experienced, wishing that someone would, please, please, put me out of my misery.  I’m in my last lap against chemo and he is as tough as I was back in the day.  I suffer through two rounds of the horrible cramping I’ve had before, with debilitating cramps every 90 seconds and fitful sleeping in 10-20 minute increments.  I’m not sure, but I may be the only man that knows what it’s like to go through child birth.  I feel like I’ve done 200 sit-ups an hour for three days in a row.

Early March

Uncle Timmy with Nephew Patrick Bentley

My 8-year-old nephew is scheduled to visit Tucson during spring break for 10 days.  I know I look different and I’m worried that he will feel awkward around me because of the way I look.  I call him and say “I’ve been sick and the medicine I had to take made my hair fall out.  I’m not contagious, and I’m excited to see
you, but just know that I look different.”  He makes my day by saying, “Uncle Timmy, I love you no matter what!”  He proceeds to wear a hat just like mine his entire visit, looking much cooler than me, just a burst of joy during this horrible time.

A few days after my nephew arrives I stagger into the Arizona Cancer Center hoping for any good news at this point. The doctor obliges and tells me that my blood levels are ‘awesome’, hemoglobin and white blood cells are high, and everything else is normal. They cannot feel the lymph node at all and they are confident that any residual NHL in my marrow is gone (it started at 10%).  I’m worried about the cramping, and while they think the worst is over, they prescribe some meds just in case. I happily feel like crap with this good news.

March 10

It’s been a month since my last treatment and I’m in for a CT Scan to get a look at the lymph node in my abdomen.  When I arrive there is a young girl probably 14 – 15 in the lobby.  She has no hair and obviously had some sort of brain surgery based on a large scar across the side of her head.  She has just thrown-up as I walk in and is crying, begging to go to her appointment. Her young mother tries to calm her down with no success. But the staff tells her that it will be a while for the machine to open.  My journey is nothing compared to hers and I gladly offer my slot and she is able to get in right away.

March 15

I’m nervous today because I will learn the results of the CAT Scan – plus, there will be another bone marrow test.  However, I’m excited to be here because I’ve been feeling good, especially now that I’m out of the Chemo phase.  My hair is growing back, I need to shave almost every day and my appetite has been good.

I don’t let the medical staff do any tests until the results of my CT Scan are revealed. I’m told the lymph node has shrunk nearly 90%, and along with my blood work, I should be 'very, very, very, very happy' (I know, I counted the number of ‘verys’).  There is not a typical marker for NHL, but all of my levels indicate that my bone marrow is producing the right kind of cells for my body.  My hemoglobin level is at 14.1 (men should be 14 - 16).  You'll remember in September 2009 they were in the 8.0 range because I was bleeding internally.  My lymph node is 2.8 cm (typically about 1 cm), but mine should continue to shrink with the Bexxar (radiation) treatment in two weeks.

I’m optimistic and apprehensive about the results, but am anxious to get back into running and being fit.  Oddly, I’ve put on weight during this process, and while not a bad thing, it is not ‘good’ weight.  I wonder if I had the level of fitness I had before – with Stage 4 Lymphoma rampant in my body – how will I feel now?

I’m asked if I’m excited by the news.  I don’t know – the prognosis is now much better than before, but it hasn't sunk in yet, but the treatment really did seem to work.  I also know the prayers, energy and well wishes of my family, friends and supporters played a part too.  The way I look at it, I'm half way through, but this first half was probably 95% of the battle.

March 17, 2010

Almost a year from my diagnosis and I receive a call from the Arizona Cancer Center.  Test results show no involvement in the bone marrow – a big fat 0%!  This is great news, although I’m apprehensive as to what it actually means.  I ask with all the recent test results, when might we be able to talk about remission?  I’m thinking it may be three months, I’m not really sure.  “You can say it right now” they say.  “Really?” I ask. “Yeah, go ahead,” they say.  I say it out loud, “I’m in remission…I’m in remission, baby!”  I’m through the roof, relieved, excited, and in shock, crying.  But for the first time in a long time when I cry, I cry in overwhelming relief.

I think, chemo, I kicked your ass.

But I wonder – can I run again?

The last entry is here.