OVER and DONE: (I hope)
I will have my 12th and final chemotherapy session tomorrow. Over the last couple of months, I’ve settled into a routine with the treatments. The first week after each session has been marked by intense fatigue and weakness. During the second week, I’d start to regain some energy—just in time for another treatment session. But not this time. This time, the second week will be followed by a third, and a fourth recovery week. I’m looking forward to getting stronger.
For some reason, there is a seven-week gap between my last chemotherapy and the PET scan which will be the determinant of whether I’m free of lymphoma. The scan is scheduled for September 2, 2025. In the meantime, I’m going to assume I’m in remission and start pushing my stamina a bit. (Diane is my stabilizing influence and she says to not get carried away here too soon).
I have lost 20 pounds—usually something to celebrate except with cancer treatment the weight loss is mostly lean muscle mass. I assume my appetite will gradually come back but now I will have to focus on consuming good quality calories.
Gratitude is a good concept and much emphasized in recovery. Regarding my Hodgkin’s lymphoma and its treatment, I am especially grateful for:
1. My tumor type: I could have developed any number of cancers where the prognosis for a 79-year-old would not be particularly good. Lymphomas generally have a better prognosis in comparison to other cancers.
2. Diane: Of course. She has been by my side every step of the way. Neither one of us has had a serious illness before and she has had to adjust her entire routine for 8 months now and counting. Yes, spouses are expected to be there--but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
3. Brad Cox: is my good golf friend who took it upon himself to drive me to every chemotherapy appointment. He lives about 45 minutes away but made sure I arrived on time for my pre-chemo blood draw, which needs to be done two hours before the infusion. His help allowed Diane to come later and that was a real gift to both of us. Plus, we got to talk golf on the way down there.
4. The infusion nurses at Fred Hutch: Chemotherapy is serious business—three hours of drug infusion after lab clearance each time. There is a dedicated team of infusion nurses on the lymphoma floor, and one is assigned to be with me 1-on-1 each visit. We’ve gotten to know most of them, and each one is superb. I get their undivided attention for three hours; they are all skilled, upbeat and caring. (If you have a drug reaction like I did during an early session, you suddenly meet six of them all at once!).
5. Michael Street: My strength coach and a very good friend. I’ve continued to lift weights as much as I could through six months of chemo. Michael believed, and I agreed, that preserving my strength would pay dividends in recovery. He reads people’s energy as well as anyone I know. Every time I shuffled into the gym, he’d quietly assess where I was and tailor my workout accordingly—adjusting for my energy level and how close I was to the next session. He routinely opened the big garage door and turned on a huge fan so I could safely take my mask off and breathe better during my workout. My strength is down, of course—but rebuilding it will be a central part of my recovery. Weightlifting will be a major part of regaining my strength.
6. My insurance coverage: The total out-of-pocket cost for my treatment at Fred Hutch? $48. That’s from the parking fee ($4 max per session; valet is free). I have Medicare plus a supplemental policy that covered everything. Yes, this should be the norm for every cancer patient in the richest country in the world—but sadly, it’s far from typical. And ironically, the people with good coverage—like me—are often those who could afford to pay out of pocket.
7. Our Utah neighbors: we had to unexpectedly leave the Utah house vacant all this time. Rodney stepped up as our unofficial property manager, and Rueben has taken care of the old Mercedes sports car we leave down there. Rodney’s wife, Jacque—who’s been through chemo and radiation herself—has been my “you’ve got this” spirit coach. Rueben’s wife, Melissa, sent me several nice, unexpected notes of encouragement.
8. My dentists: prior to my cancer diagnosis, I had several teeth that were in transition to implants. Not unexpectedly, with my chronic low white blood cell count, a wisdom tooth got infected two weeks ago. Dr. Spencer treated the infection and followed me over the holiday weekend. On Tuesday, Dr. Oh, my oral surgeon, made extra time on his schedule and smoothly extracted it.
9. Clacey & Luna: I have had full dog coverage the whole time. At any given moment, one of them is nearby—like they’re taking turns to make sure I’m covered. Luna is lying next to me as I write this.
Final Thoughts
It’s been a long road, and I still have some distance to travel, but finishing chemotherapy feels like crossing a major threshold. I’m hopeful. I’m tired. I’m grateful.
The road ahead: What is around the corner?