We met with Dr Sheehan yesterday at University Hospital and discussed the lab tests. Yes, it looks like something is going on with the cancer. But Dr Sheehan suggested that given the increase in Sabine's "numbers" being rather minimal from what it once was, we should "watch and wait.
So, our attack now is to do exactly that. We will take the light chain test (our cancer "marker") in six weeks and see what is going. If the increase is slight, we will wait six more weeks and then meet with Dr Sheehan to formulate a strategy if the increase continues.
Right now, Dr Sheehan is not keen on a second stem cell transplant. He feels we have a number of chemotherapies that can be used to keep the cancer in check before we think about another transplant.
While Sunday was "crash-day" for both of us, we have recovered and Sabine is back to being her bubbling, positive self (and, therefore, so am I!).
She wore her "half-full" t-shirt into her consultation with Dr Sheehan and was also wearing some wildly decorated "flip-flop" shoes Helen Ackley (from our congregation in North Lake) had made for her.
In the meantime, "celebrate life every day!" A good motto for all of us -- whether we are fighing cancer or not!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Tick, tock, tick, tock TICK!
I always feel a bit anxious before Sabine's visit to her oncologist. I think I have described it as hearing the tick-tock of a clock (is it a time bomb?) Last week, Sabine took the customary blood tests in preparation for her meeting with her oncologist, Dr Sheehan, this coming Wednesday. All but one of the blood tests had come back and in my layman's opinion, all looked good and within "normal" ranges. But one was missing.
It was the primary cancer test -- the test that would tell us if Sabine's cancer was still in check (since the stem cell transplant a year ago), or not. It is called the serum light chain test. Usually, we get the test back from the lab in California about the same time we get the other locally-tested blood work.
So we checked and checked last week and nothing appeared on Sabine's test results chart. We checked with the local lab who said that it should be coming back any time now. I have to admit that I wasn't too worried about the results because I would have bet the "numbers" would be okay. After all, Sabine had plenty of energy these past six weeks and we (except for dialysis five times a week) were living a pretty normal life, running, biking, and kayaking with a lot of other activity including a weeklong visit from numerous family members!
But last night we stopped by to visit some friends of ours who are also members of our cancer support group. We missed last week's meeting because of the family gathering and now they were giving us an update -- and it wasn't good. A man we had gotten to know quite well from our group suddenly was in palliative care -- his cancer had come back with a vengeance. He had plunged downward rather rapidly after his second stem cell transplant. I could see that Sabine was very upset when she heard about what had happened to him. Last year alone, we lost two members of our support group to the cancer each one of us battles. Each death is shaking reminder of this untreatable cancer!
This morning, on the way to lead worship in North Lake, I casually checked my email messages. There was a notification from Sabine's physician that she checked on the lab test and was sure it would arrive by the time we saw Dr Sheehan. But there also was another message -- "new test results." I pulled the car over and went to the website of Sabine's healthcare provider and pulled up the new test results. It wasn't what I had expected -- the numbers had doubled and were now out of the normal range!
It was a "kick in the stomach" for both of us. But what does it mean? The cancer was now growing again, but how much? Is this significnant? What's next for us? Well, right now we don't know and we must wait in this interim period until we consult with Dr Sheehan. But we had watched these numbers double before when Sabine went through her last chemotherapy.
I could see that Sabine needed to process this downturn. She asked for some time alone and urged me to continue to North Lake and lead the worship service. I was shaken, but felt I could carry on. I prayed all the way.
When I got to church, our friends noticed Sabine was not with me. "Is everything okay?" they asked. The grief started to well up again. This was too much like when I first heard "you've got cancer!"
I had two choices here. I could "suck it up" -- "the play's the thing!" -- and be a good Thespian. Or, I could share this grief with my small congregation. What would I want if I was sitting in the pew? What would I expect from my pastor -- to tough it out, not to share his life when he had preached so much about being real and developing an authentic Christ-like community?
I don't enjoy sharing my grief in public. I dislke public crying even more. I still think of myself as a "tough guy." But this was my community, these were my friends who had supported me and Sabine these past three years of cancer. I decided I owed it to them to be authentic. "Tough guy" wouldn't cut it. I decided to share my grief and sadness.
After the gospel reading about a woman who was healed by Jesus, I stood up and read two verses of the psalm we just read (Psalm 71:17-18):
Since my youth, O God, you have taught me,
and to this day I declare your marvelous deeds.
Even when I am old and gray,
do not forsake me, O God,
till I declare your power to the next generation,
your might to all who are to come.
I was then planning on making an announcement concerning the lab test results -- but I could not. I became chocked up and could not speak. So I sat down and asked my friend, Andy, who was assisting me with worship, to tell what I had shared with him and his wife earlier.
Andy made the announcement and then offered a prayer from the Book of Common Prayer, "A Prayer for a Loved One." By that time I was able to collect myself and fill in more details and then we all prayed again for healing and strength for Sabine and each one of us. I recited the 23 Psalm... "lo, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, you, God, are with me..."
The rest of the liturgy moved along until I moved to distribute communion to the congregation. As they person held out open hands to receive the sacrament, I noticed red-rimmed, loving eyes shining up at me -- bouying me and Sabine up on the journey ahead. I knew again why I was a Christian.
When I picked Sabine up she had just bought a new t-shirt and was wearing it and smiling. "I just needed some time" she said, "to think, pray, and pull myself together!" Our prayers had worked! And Sabine was back to being her same positive, loving self. On the t-shirt? A cup with the inscription, "Half-Full!" (not half-empty!) I told her again how much I loved her and how we would, together, "press on!"
It was the primary cancer test -- the test that would tell us if Sabine's cancer was still in check (since the stem cell transplant a year ago), or not. It is called the serum light chain test. Usually, we get the test back from the lab in California about the same time we get the other locally-tested blood work.
So we checked and checked last week and nothing appeared on Sabine's test results chart. We checked with the local lab who said that it should be coming back any time now. I have to admit that I wasn't too worried about the results because I would have bet the "numbers" would be okay. After all, Sabine had plenty of energy these past six weeks and we (except for dialysis five times a week) were living a pretty normal life, running, biking, and kayaking with a lot of other activity including a weeklong visit from numerous family members!
But last night we stopped by to visit some friends of ours who are also members of our cancer support group. We missed last week's meeting because of the family gathering and now they were giving us an update -- and it wasn't good. A man we had gotten to know quite well from our group suddenly was in palliative care -- his cancer had come back with a vengeance. He had plunged downward rather rapidly after his second stem cell transplant. I could see that Sabine was very upset when she heard about what had happened to him. Last year alone, we lost two members of our support group to the cancer each one of us battles. Each death is shaking reminder of this untreatable cancer!
This morning, on the way to lead worship in North Lake, I casually checked my email messages. There was a notification from Sabine's physician that she checked on the lab test and was sure it would arrive by the time we saw Dr Sheehan. But there also was another message -- "new test results." I pulled the car over and went to the website of Sabine's healthcare provider and pulled up the new test results. It wasn't what I had expected -- the numbers had doubled and were now out of the normal range!
It was a "kick in the stomach" for both of us. But what does it mean? The cancer was now growing again, but how much? Is this significnant? What's next for us? Well, right now we don't know and we must wait in this interim period until we consult with Dr Sheehan. But we had watched these numbers double before when Sabine went through her last chemotherapy.
I could see that Sabine needed to process this downturn. She asked for some time alone and urged me to continue to North Lake and lead the worship service. I was shaken, but felt I could carry on. I prayed all the way.
When I got to church, our friends noticed Sabine was not with me. "Is everything okay?" they asked. The grief started to well up again. This was too much like when I first heard "you've got cancer!"
I had two choices here. I could "suck it up" -- "the play's the thing!" -- and be a good Thespian. Or, I could share this grief with my small congregation. What would I want if I was sitting in the pew? What would I expect from my pastor -- to tough it out, not to share his life when he had preached so much about being real and developing an authentic Christ-like community?
I don't enjoy sharing my grief in public. I dislke public crying even more. I still think of myself as a "tough guy." But this was my community, these were my friends who had supported me and Sabine these past three years of cancer. I decided I owed it to them to be authentic. "Tough guy" wouldn't cut it. I decided to share my grief and sadness.
After the gospel reading about a woman who was healed by Jesus, I stood up and read two verses of the psalm we just read (Psalm 71:17-18):
Since my youth, O God, you have taught me,
and to this day I declare your marvelous deeds.
Even when I am old and gray,
do not forsake me, O God,
till I declare your power to the next generation,
your might to all who are to come.
I was then planning on making an announcement concerning the lab test results -- but I could not. I became chocked up and could not speak. So I sat down and asked my friend, Andy, who was assisting me with worship, to tell what I had shared with him and his wife earlier.
Andy made the announcement and then offered a prayer from the Book of Common Prayer, "A Prayer for a Loved One." By that time I was able to collect myself and fill in more details and then we all prayed again for healing and strength for Sabine and each one of us. I recited the 23 Psalm... "lo, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, you, God, are with me..."
The rest of the liturgy moved along until I moved to distribute communion to the congregation. As they person held out open hands to receive the sacrament, I noticed red-rimmed, loving eyes shining up at me -- bouying me and Sabine up on the journey ahead. I knew again why I was a Christian.
When I picked Sabine up she had just bought a new t-shirt and was wearing it and smiling. "I just needed some time" she said, "to think, pray, and pull myself together!" Our prayers had worked! And Sabine was back to being her same positive, loving self. On the t-shirt? A cup with the inscription, "Half-Full!" (not half-empty!) I told her again how much I loved her and how we would, together, "press on!"
Monday, August 16, 2010
Some of the Couper Clan Assembles
As we approach our 6-week "numbers-check" with Dr Sheehan, Sabine helps me organize an assembly of the Couper Clan at our farm in Blue Mounds. Here's a good share (but not all) of the nine children and eleven grandchildren!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Summertime and the Living is Easy...
That tune has been playing in my head these last few weeks. But as Sabine and I enjoy the summertime, we know that we have some blood tests and visit to Dr Sheehan coming up this month.
I don't know if Sabine thinks like I do (I mean I don't think she has ever read this blog -- I guess she doesn't have to because she knows me so well after 30 years of living with me!). But, as I have shared with my caregiver support group at Gilda's House, I hear the clock. I hear it ticking in the background. After we get a clean "bill of health," and are walking out of Dr Sheehan's officer, I can barely hear it. But as the time arrives for the blood work and visit to check on how we are doing controlling this cancer, the "tick-tocking" is a loud background noise.
I appreciate the time our health care providers have given us. The stem-cell transplant seems to be a miracle in itself. And our home dialysis is time-together and satisfies my hidden desire to be a medical practitioner (perhaps in another life?).
Nevertheless, life is good. I am exceedingly thankful. And, in the meantime, let's keep dancin'!
I don't know if Sabine thinks like I do (I mean I don't think she has ever read this blog -- I guess she doesn't have to because she knows me so well after 30 years of living with me!). But, as I have shared with my caregiver support group at Gilda's House, I hear the clock. I hear it ticking in the background. After we get a clean "bill of health," and are walking out of Dr Sheehan's officer, I can barely hear it. But as the time arrives for the blood work and visit to check on how we are doing controlling this cancer, the "tick-tocking" is a loud background noise.
I appreciate the time our health care providers have given us. The stem-cell transplant seems to be a miracle in itself. And our home dialysis is time-together and satisfies my hidden desire to be a medical practitioner (perhaps in another life?).
Nevertheless, life is good. I am exceedingly thankful. And, in the meantime, let's keep dancin'!
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