The Worst Weekend Getaway Ever!

One day nearly two weeks ago, Husband came to me and said, "Does my left side feel firmer than the right?" I pushed on his abdomen for a while, and yes, there definitely was a firmness in his left upper abdomen. Several days later, he came to me again.

"It's bigger. There's something in there. I can feel it."
There was something in there. I could feel it, too. The next morning, I scheduled an appointment for him to see the doctor and get it checked out, but the soonest they could fit him in was nearly a week away.

It was a long week. As his side got firmer and more uncomfortable, Husband tried to do some research on the internet to explain what might be happening. Scary, scary things showed up.

One day, he started a sentence with, "If I die..." We had a long conversation about what I should do if he was no longer here. We have life insurance, and he wanted me to be able to pay off the mortgage and the student loan and take the kids on a vacation somewhere. He told me that one day I would find someone else who could take care of me and love me, and that would be okay. I hit him, but gently, on the right shoulder, because I didn't want him talking like that. I can't imagine not having him here, making me laugh, loving me, loving the children, my best friend.

I held it together pretty well, I thought. I didn't have long crying jags and become hysterical. Husband, impatient, managed to get an earlier appointment with another doctor, and she ordered blood work and a CT scan of his upper left abdomen. Husband took the day off work to have the scan done, and then we waited and waited for the results. The night he had the CT scan is when I broke down. All the waiting and wondering finally got to me. We were watching an episode of Doc Martin -- the last episode in the latest season on Netflix -- and when it ended, Husband turned and looked at me. He had his arm around me while we sat on the couch. He leaned his face against mine. And I just started bawling. Big, heaving sobs, tears everywhere. He held me and rubbed my back.

The blood work came back with some odd numbers, and the doctor wanted to repeat it. Husband went back in to give them some more blood, and the doc was in a telephone conference with some of the specialists at the Huntsman Cancer Institute. For an hour they talked, and then the doctor came out of the room and told Husband to get himself to the Institute that night (Friday, Sept. 10). His spleen was five times bigger than it should be, and they were so worried about it rupturing that they didn't feel he could wait until Monday to go to the hospital. Obviously, sending him to a cancer institute had other implications. While I drove him to The Big City and to the institute, perched high on the side of a foothill, with a commanding view of the entire valley, we tried to joke around that this wasn't the kind of date I was expecting to be taken on. I only teared up once, but because I was driving, I forced the tears back and drove carefully.

The Huntsman Cancer Institute is beautiful. The architecture and materials are breathtaking. It's almost like a hotel, with its dark, rich wood, marble and granite inlays, and two-story walls of soaring windows. Husband's room was also beautiful, for a hospital room. One wall was entirely glass, overlooking the valley; at night, all the lights of the city twinkled cheerfully, life going on below us. Even the food is excellent.

Friday night was mostly about answering detailed questions about Husband's medical history and the medical history of his family. The doctor, a lovely young girl from India via New York, obviously couldn't rationalize Husband's story of being born with a hole in his heart that spontaneously healed after being given a blessing by his father. He told the doctor how his mother watched Husband's tiny little fingers go from blue to pink in a few moments, and how the doctors who were set to perform surgery later that day could no longer find anything wrong. Our doctor was puzzled by that, and gave us some explanations as to why it might be possible. It was okay that she couldn't believe in a miracle. What endeared me to her the most was that her father called her twice while we were talking and I saw the respect that showed in her eyes when she saw the number. The first time, she answered in Hindi and obviously told him she was with a patient. The second time, she said, "I need to take this call. It's my dad." She was only gone for a couple minutes, but she needed to take his call. Good girl.

Saturday morning, everyone wanted a piece of Husband. The phlebotomist took so much blood, I told Husband he was much lighter on the right side than the left. The doctor for that day took a bone marrow biopsy, which was painful. She couldn't get any bone marrow, as the cells were too tightly packed, so she had to dig out three core samples. So many people wanted some sample of this or that, or to ask questions or perform some test, that by the time I had finally convinced Husband to eat some lunch (he hadn't wanted breakfast), it was nearly 2:00. I was reaching for the phone to order him food when the nurse came in and announced that two CT scans of the chest and lower abdomen had been ordered, and because of that, he would need to take the next two hours to drink a barium shake. No lunch.

He didn't get lunch until dinner time. He was exhausted and no one had been able to give us any answers. The phlebotomist (the doctors and nurses called him the vampire) had been back three times for blood. I was surprised Husband still had any left. We were worried. We sat there sort of watching cowboy movies on television.

It wasn't until Sunday that the answers came. The doctors were doing rounds in a large group, and they were standing outside Husband's room, conversing about Husband's symptoms. Our efforts to eavesdrop were severely hampered by the cleaning lady who showed up and made a racket tidying things up. Finally, the crowd came in. Husband said, "It's really hard to hear you guys." This first doctor who came in laughed and said, "That's why we're coming in here." They crowded around the bed, and the head doctor, a lean, blond woman with a kind face, told us that yes, it was cancer, but it was one of the most easily treated cancers there are. It's called hairy cell leukemia, and it has a 96% remission rate after treatment. The other 4% can be taken care of with other drugs.

After they left, I choked up. Relief, I imagine. The phone rang, and it was Husband's mum, calling at the perfect moment to hear the diagnosis. I handed the phone to Husband.

Husband will have chemotherapy for seven days. The doctors will closely monitor his blood levels and watch to see if his spleen is shrinking back to normal size. Once the cancer is in remission, it can stay in remission for years. People live a normal life span with hairy cell leukemia. There's every reason to believe that Husband will be just fine.

All the family is informed. I came home yesterday to see my children, who have had their uncle and my parents taking care of them so I could stay with Husband. Husband will be released tomorrow, and he'll take the week off work while he has the chemo. A classroom full of germ-riddled fifth graders is no place to be with a compromised immune system.

This is already severely long. I'll write more another time, and I will get that thing posted in honor of my brother. I'm going back to the hospital today to see how Husband reacts to the chemo. Cross your fingers.