Round Three, Day Three

Well, here I am, back in one of the three chairs in Room 11, the Oncological Trials "transients" room on the seventh floor of Georgetown Hospital, waiting to get my third dose of Fludarabine this week. It's 8:05 a.m., and as this place doesn't officially open for another twenty-five minutes, I thought I would catch up on the blog a little.

I'm here early today, a victim of the Washington D.C. time-space-traffic singularity/paradox, which can be summarized thusly: Somewhere in DC traffic, appearing every morning around 6:30 a.m. and every evening around 4:15 p.m., there is a quantum black hole that eats time. My evidence? If I leave the house at 5:30 a.m. (as I did this morning), I get to Georgetown in an hour and forty-five minutes. If I leave just 30 minutes later at 6:00 a.m. (as I did yesterday), it takes two hours and twenty minutes. Somewhere along the line, the black hole ate thirty-five minutes.

This leads to the DC/Beltway paradox that states that when traveling the Beltway around rush hour, you can never reach anywhere on time. You either have to plan on being forty-five minutes early or a half hour late.

Also, high tech sonic sensors embedded in the road sense how close your bladder is to max capacity. Anytime the bladder readings show 95% full or higher, traffic signals are manipulated to bring all traffic to a stand still. The savvy traveler stops at a convenience story to "unload" before entering the Beltway, whether the need is there or not. Sometimes a half-ounce of extra capacity is the difference between discomfort and a disaster that only a pair of Depends can avert.

Update: It's 8:30 and Mary Ellen already has my Fludarabine hooked up an pumping--she is not messing around today. I should be on the road by 9:15 and should be able to make a meeting at Pax River that I called for 11:30. Sweet.

Mary E. asked about the blog, and I commented that I feel a little guilty that it's been so boring lately. Now that Chemo has morphed into a routine, now that it appears that I'm responding favorably to the treatment, my level of angst has dropped dramatically. Look--I still have cancer. I will still have cancer when this treatment series is done, albeit it will be in remission. But I understand more and more that this is something that I can and will live with. I am incredibly optimistic about the future. I didn't have that back in February.

And don't get me wrong: I am so looking forward to the blog post when I get to type the words "medically undetectable". Champagne will be drunk that night. But I understand that--cancer or no cancer--how I live my life is up to me. I understand a little better how precious every day is. I like to think as a patient I've learned patience.

Two more days and round 3 will be done.

Welcome aboard to my old (so very old) buddy, Gary, and to Elisha, who I believe is a young woman I met on Tuesday who works with an Arts group here at Georgetown that helps patients express their feelings through writing and through art.