Cycle 1, Day 1

And so it begins.

I'm currently sitting alone in the hallway next to the B elevators on the second floor of M.D. Anderson Cancer Center (MDACC), just down the hallway from the Ambulatory Treatment Center Bed Unit (ATC Bed Unit). In room 5, my Dad is receiving his first infusion of Rituxan, a drug that enables your body to selectively kill cancer cells on its own. After about 5 hours of Rituxan — which will gradually increase in dosage as they monitor his body's reaction to it — he will then begin to receive the 4 other drugs in his R-CHOP therapy (Cyclophosphamide, Doxorubicin, Vincristine, and Prednisolone) over a period of 3 hours. As I type this now, his Rituxan dosage been bumped up to 300 ml/hr, with 400 ml/hr being the maximum — and he's handling the drug just fine. We are fervently praying that this positive trend continues throughout the rest of the treatment.

If Dad's white blood cells rebuild as desired, we will have our last treatment — which is called a cycle — on December 3. Until then, we will return every 3 weeks for another cycle, for a total of 8 cycles. During this time, we will return once a week to get blood work done as part of his contribution to the clinical trial he's participating in. If, for some reason, his counts do go up as desired, they will postpone his cycle for 1 week, then go from there.

MDACC is like a different world. This isn't just your family doctor's facility — there are no "runny noses" or "sore throats." Dad said it best when he said that people only come here to live — and there's a palpable camaraderie between everyone here. We are here to live. We are here to fight something that wants us to die at any cost. We are sick. We are dying.

But here, in the midst of all this sickness, there is an undercurrent of hope. There's a pulse, a beat, a constant knowledge that people are being healed and cured all around us. That rhythm reverberates through the staff, and then on to all of us here. It's like we're in our own little, isolated world — like we're a People Group of our own. And, I guess, we sort of are. There's a sympathy in the glances we all exchange as we pass in the halls, and look of "I know" and "I understand." You find yourself talking to strangers as though you've known them for years; the bond made strong in so short a time because of the situation we're in.

As I stood in line at the pharmacy tonight, a man said he'd been seeing me all day with Dad, and when I looked in his eyes, I could see he was looking for someone to say it would be okay. He has a different cancer, and he's hoping to start treatment on Thursday — but I'll never forget the look in his eyes when I told him you just have to keep looking forward to that next bit of good news. I hope to see him again, and I probably will — and I'm quite certain we will chat for a while when we do. As we went our separate ways, I said what I've heard so many "old pros" saying around here: "good luck."

That's the rally cry for everyone here.

I wish I could do a better job of explaining what it's like to be here, because it's so humbling. It's a miserable place in the sense that you know so many people are suffering — and it's a wonderful place because you really do feel like you're in the fight with hundreds (thousands) of other people at your side. I guess you could say it's the human condition at its worst, and the human spirit at its best. It is a Good Place, for sure.

Amid all the science, God is moving without a doubt. You are constantly hearing snippets of conversations about prayers and healing — and that's totally awesome. It's like you're in a lightning rod that's receiving God's spirit.

I could go on, but it's 10:45pm and I'm exhausted. Dad is doing great, and I'm sure he'll be almost finished with his Rituxan by the time I walk back to his room. I love sitting out here, knowing he and Mom are sitting by one another. I cannot think of two people that are quite so wonderful, and I look forward to finally killing this cancer so that they can be free of the burden of this sickness.

Thank you all for the prayers and thoughts. We ask that you continue lifting-up our family in this time — and we ask that you pray especially for us to give hope to those we see and meet, so that we can be a blessing to others as we, ourselves, have been blessed.

Posted by on 07/15 at 09:01 PM

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