
After a month’s absence, it was back
to the chemo- and immunotherapy infusion unit (is it possible to already have nostalgia
for the room full of semi-comfy recliners, IV poles & pumps, springy tray
tables and the mini-fridge always stocked with those good no-name puddings?). I
discover that I’ve missed my sessions there, like finding peace in an
anti-refuge of great and small expectations.
But, today they also surprised me
with a strawberry cake and a wonderfully discordant rendering of Happy Birthday,
its tempo and unisons way off as they always are, but big smiles in lined-up scrubs
harmony.
Then, blood draws for labs … and the
sit-down with oncologist doc that I’ve had some fret over:
-- Reaffirmed Stage 4 cancer, tumor
statuses unknown until follow-up scans. (We’ll leave the prognosis for now in
one of those generic pudding cups.)
-- Plan to resume chemotherapy
therapy regimen after I’m backed off the steroids and antibiotics in the next
two weeks, but this time without the Keytruda that was quite possibly the
precipitant villain of my intestinal near glory hole revolution. Sorry,
Merck.

-- For the record, they’re calling
it (Day Sixty-Four) “immune-mediated colitis.” Doc tells me that folks in my
cancer stage boat suffer this “about ten percent” of the time. I’m calling that
hospital stay my temporary membership with the liquid minority (for gut-driven
reasons we needn’t belabor), and much as I love statistics, I hate statistics.
Next birthday, however, I’d like to
re-join the solid majority and have all my mettle in all my petals.
More as we go, El