Immunotherapy, Part II or III
The chemotherapy—whoops, I mean the immunotherapy—appears to be working. Recent tests, a cystoscopy, where a tiny camera is snaked up one’s urethra, and a colonoscopy, where a tiny camera is snaked up one’s butt, showed no new cancerous growth. This is excellent news, and I am vastly relieved that for once, I was medically wise to dispute my surgeon’s opinions. Surgeons want to cut, it’s in their genes, and I refused to let him excise my bladder, colon, and a couple of lymph glands.
The body is a wonder, really. My oncologist had told me in so many words that my bladder was dying and should be removed. I thought I felt a slight quiver of life still fluttering in this humble organ, so I respectfully refused surgery. For once, it appears I was right. Yowzah!
I am now in my sixth month of immunotherapy. I go to a clinic once every three weeks and sit in a medical Barcalounger. An IV is inserted in the crook of my elbow, and a wonder drug, pembrolizumab, drips into my body at a rate of one drop every three seconds. The medicine, I’m told, bolsters my immune system. Only 30 percent of patients improve thanks to pembrolizumab, so I am counting myself among the very lucky few. I am given a couple of pretty good cups of institutional decaf and sit there for forty-five minutes. I doze. I compose cancer limericks, or compose angry letters to the editor about the latest perceived outrage.
The clinic staff is wonderful. I know Patrick longs for his native Ghana and worries about who is fixing his grandfather’s coffee. Janet is planning to move from her three-bedroom cottage to an apartment. Sales of the jewelry she fashions at home are going well, but the transition from house to high-rise is a concern. Philippa wants to write. I noticed the tattoo of an old-fashioned manual typewriter on her forearm, and she told me she wants to do screenplays. She’s sent me a couple of articles she’s drafted and they look promising.
The immunotherapy is a lot more tolerable than were the chemo sessions of the past. The latter made me seriously ill and left me bed-ridden for a day or two. This latest treatment causes fatigue, and a very slight rash from time to time. The only other side effect is that my hair, once wavy, is now as straight as Davy Jones’s bangs.
There’s no end in sight for these treatments. I’ll get re-evaluated every three months or so, and, inshallah, life will remain healthy. I have to admit, this is all unexpected. Maybe there are still a few adventures ahead.
The body is a wonder, really. My oncologist had told me in so many words that my bladder was dying and should be removed. I thought I felt a slight quiver of life still fluttering in this humble organ, so I respectfully refused surgery. For once, it appears I was right. Yowzah!
I am now in my sixth month of immunotherapy. I go to a clinic once every three weeks and sit in a medical Barcalounger. An IV is inserted in the crook of my elbow, and a wonder drug, pembrolizumab, drips into my body at a rate of one drop every three seconds. The medicine, I’m told, bolsters my immune system. Only 30 percent of patients improve thanks to pembrolizumab, so I am counting myself among the very lucky few. I am given a couple of pretty good cups of institutional decaf and sit there for forty-five minutes. I doze. I compose cancer limericks, or compose angry letters to the editor about the latest perceived outrage.
The clinic staff is wonderful. I know Patrick longs for his native Ghana and worries about who is fixing his grandfather’s coffee. Janet is planning to move from her three-bedroom cottage to an apartment. Sales of the jewelry she fashions at home are going well, but the transition from house to high-rise is a concern. Philippa wants to write. I noticed the tattoo of an old-fashioned manual typewriter on her forearm, and she told me she wants to do screenplays. She’s sent me a couple of articles she’s drafted and they look promising.
The immunotherapy is a lot more tolerable than were the chemo sessions of the past. The latter made me seriously ill and left me bed-ridden for a day or two. This latest treatment causes fatigue, and a very slight rash from time to time. The only other side effect is that my hair, once wavy, is now as straight as Davy Jones’s bangs.
There’s no end in sight for these treatments. I’ll get re-evaluated every three months or so, and, inshallah, life will remain healthy. I have to admit, this is all unexpected. Maybe there are still a few adventures ahead.
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