Dear Family and Friends,
As the night advances, I’ve been reflecting on last evening. As you might imagine, it was a bad night. A really, really bad night. Demons have been everywhere in my head. I have desperately searched the Internet for answers to my many questions. “I’m a doctor after all,” I tell myself. “Surely I can make sense of this situation. Surely I can find something to help Nancy out of this mess.”
In reality, I don’t want answers. I suspect anything I find will be unfavorable. Reading between my tears, I don’t find anything to change my mood. Every article I discover confirms Dr. Morton’s assessment of how progressive the illness is and what that potentially means.
Still I vow not give up hope. Or, at the very least, I will support Nancy during each step of whatever her journey will come to be. Earlier, after a normally inconsequential bump into the hospital bed gave her a nasty new bruise, I convinced Nancy to allow me to assist on bathroom trips. With IVs constantly running, those trips are frequent.
“I don’t want to awaken you if you are sleeping,” she initially told me. I pointed to the fresh bruise on her left thigh and gave her a look I hadn’t used since the kids were teens. “All right,” she replied to my unstated words and added, “You always seem to be awake anyway.” Nancy now allows me to rub her sore back and fetch her chocolate ice cream. By the end of last night, she understood. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?” “No, I’m not,” I replied as tears yet once again filled my eyes.
Our new temporary home has one small window, approximately two feet square. From Nancy’s bed and the chair where I sit and sleep, the east-facing view provides a mostly unobstructed look at the Wasatch Mountains. The entire evening last night, I looked forward to seeing the snow-covered horizon if only to be comforted by knowing that our real home is somewhere amid the foothills. When the dark of night transitioned to the light of dawn, slate-gray clouds initially obscured the distant peaks. It was just another disappointment to add to a growing list.
However, right before the doctors arrived on their morning rounds today, the clouds disappeared. Our window was filled with mountaintops jutting into a sky bright with sunshine. When the doctors arrived, they brought even brighter news.
Nancy’s diagnosis has been confirmed. She is fighting acute myeloid leukemia, or AML for short. This particular leukemia has six subgroups, and Dr. Morton explained that Nancy has the rare one called M3. Of the six, M3 has the best prognosis. Statistically, M3 AML has an approximately 70% cure rate. Several of the other subgroups have cure rates of less than 2%, which is what I had read about before I forced myself to another task. And as I held my breath, Dr. Morton grabbed my hand and looked me straight in the eyes: “Winnie, this changes everything. We should be able to get Nancy into remission even though her blood count is so seriously altered.” We shook hands vigorously.
So in less than forty-eight hours, Nancy has a solid diagnosis. And after a single five-minute conversation, my spirits jumped to above the mountains outside our tiny window. Even the sterile and stale hospital room air suddenly smelled fresher. The light in the room seemed brighter. I took a bite of Nancy’s unfinished hospital “everything” bagel, and it actually tasted like a gourmet bagel that exploded my taste buds with a multitude of flavors.
I savored the moment and let Dr. Morton’s words pervade and wash over my being.
Nancy should make it through this week!
It is miraculous how quickly our fate has changed.
When Nancy was first admitted, it was Memorial Day weekend. Initially, I worried nothing would happen until Tuesday and that I might have to take a nurse hostage to get a hematologist to come see her. I even fantasized picketing the hospital cafeteria to get her initial blood tests done.
But now, instead of being frustrated and angry, I am celebrating this holiday weekend. As I write, our medical team not only has secured the diagnosis but is now hanging the IV fluid containing Nancy’s first chemotherapy treatment.
Our journey has begun.
We are now ready to tackle the day-to-day tasks. We have to think about nutrition, exercise, and the routine tests that Nancy will have pretty much every day. She does not need the painful procedure called a bone marrow extraction, since her AML diagnosis was so obvious. We are happy with that news since it means one less needle. Nancy faces many, many prods and sticks in the coming days and weeks. Presently, she has three separate IVs going into her body. When the chemotherapy side effects kick in, she may not be able to eat, which might mean more procedures and tubes. Still, Nancy’s smile is fully back. And mine is slowly beginning to emerge again.
OK. You are current on Nancy’s status. If my explanation doesn’t make sense, it might be because I am on the last of my adrenaline having been up continuously over the last several days. Even toothpicks can’t keep my eyes open, and I am probably rambling with nonsense.
Feel free to send questions so I can address them.
We’re in this for the long haul, and both of us really appreciate your support. I have no doubt that if anyone can beat this thing, it is my Nancy.
P.S. Nancy is not allowed to receive flowers due to the fragility of her immune system and the resulting worry about infection. Originally, my plan was to fill her room with the largest array of colors and varieties in Utah. I was going to set aside time for a mountain bike ride in quest of buckets of spring wild flowers, which I planned to supplement with the best blossoms and plants the local florist had on hand. I also assumed Nancy might receive a few flowers from some of you. But, unfortunately, no flowers for now.
However, if you’d like to send a card, Nancy’s address for at least the next several weeks is: LDS Hospital, Room 842 East, 8th and C Street, Salt Lake City, Utah 84143.
Summary: Nancy is a different person than I wrote about yesterday. Her spirits are high. She is feeling stronger and ready to fight the good fight. Most importantly, her prognosis has changed. She still has a serious, life-threatening illness. But now there is hope.
Love to you all,
Winnie