Wishing on a Blue Star (32 page)

So, consequently, it is the morning of my sixth day and I’m waiting for labs to come and take blood. It’s sort of like a produce market; the earlier in the morning the better. :)

Doc is slated to come by this morning and we’ll begin the discussion of what to do about the cancer coming back so fast. I cant exactly say I’m looking forward to the conversation, but I’m glad it’s him and not someone else.

Doc’s wisdom is often expressed in silence, as opposed to the sheer volume of the other folks.

You’ve no idea how much I value that. Thanks Doc!

Cheers...

Patric

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Contrast and compare....

Yeah, yeah... For all you doomsday prophets, two posts in three days does not mean the world is coming to an end. Yet. :)

I spoke to Doc yesterday morning regarding a plan for the relapsed cancer. As a recap, we’re talking about a lymphoma that took an 18 week chemo cycle to knock down, and showed up again in tests a mere six weeks later. That’s the definition of aggressive. :/ And of course a transplant is out of the question because of the presence of lymphoma in the latest biopsy.

So, with all this in mind, Doc gave me a stack of paperwork the other day, written in the language I prefer, and offers me to look it over, which I did.

By the time he returned, I had only one real question: Is it a viable notion to do a few more rounds of chemo, knock the cancer back, and then *jump* on a transplant before it comes back, again?

In a single word, his answer was ‘Yes’ and I got excited.

We both know as fact there is no cure. Foolish to even hope for one. What I *can* do however, is ‘add more quarters to the parking meter’ and thereby get more time before my meter expires. A transplant will do that, to one degree or another.

Or so I believe.

Apparently however, others do not hold the same conviction. Doc just left my room. He spoke to the transplant specialist earlier and was told that a transplant probably wouldn’t have any benefit. Crap.

In a nutshell, it’s back to square one. Sigh. Silly me. I should have known better than to get excited. lol.

Oh well... Onward and upward. (Or in this case, ‘Inward and downward’.)

Tomorrow morning I get a different camera down my throat. This one has an ultrasound on the end of the wand thingy. It is a way to look at organs near the stomach, like the pancreas. Think of it as a little elf guy leaning against the wall with a cup against his ear so he can listen to what’s going on in the next room.

Kind of a cool concept, and one that will hopefully shed some light on what-all has been going on.

Cheers folks. Nap time for me. Thank you for all the wonderful comments and wishes. Y’all rock. :)

Patric

Dragonfly

Jan Irving

Some people catch your attention the way an iridescent dragonfly does when it suddenly whizzes by you on a warm day. I remember last fall seeing one in the height of its summer growth, green-blue wings stilled for a moment as it clung to my balcony roof before it disappeared. That was how it was with Patric.

I first became aware of him when I was a new author. I remember him interacting with other people and he seemed so funny—he’s actually incredibly funny—and so confident. A man who had done many jobs and possesses a lot of experience and a down to earth quality.

I am not a very verbal person. I tend to interact with close friends better than I do in crowds. I admire people who possess the qualities I see in Patric. I think that anyone who has met him online probably has had that impression of warm regard, warm interest in the people around him.

I will confess that when I learned he was sick, it was not through reading his blog. It was more like snatches of overheard conversation, bits and pieces that I put together over some time. Then a close friend of mine told me she’d dedicated one of her stories to him and I knew it had to be serious.

I mulled over it on my own, on the sidelines. I was working on one of those stories that just energizes you and makes you feel good to work on it. They are not all alike, some are like carrying heavy chains on your back. But remember that dragonfly I mentioned? This is how the story felt, and this is how Patric felt so when I was suddenly confronted with putting all those pieces together and realizing this funny, humane and beautiful person was sick, was maybe not going to be around, I needed to do something. What could I do? Writing him an email, no. So I decided I wanted to dedicate a story to him.

I wrote him and he was delighted. For me, I wanted him to know something I enjoyed doing made me think of him. After I’d finished it, I remember joking with him online and he said that a straight cowboy was a waste. That was Patric. He made me laugh.

When I was asked to take part in this collection it was a difficult time in my own life. I remember getting the email from Kris and thinking ‘I don’t want this—Patric being sick, Patric being gone, Patric having cancer—on top of the rest. I don’t want to write anything for
this
reason. Damn it!’

All through this time, I saw him joking around with others online, not as much as before since he was in treatment and sometimes days would pass and then he’d be around again and I’d always feel relief and delight that he was around again. One time we exchanged some letters so I know he went out for a drive with a friend and I imagined him out doing that. I actually pictured him with the wind in his hair, enjoying a day out (and I imagined it was a sunny day).

I’ve been mulling since then and what I think I’ve learned from Patric is that life is that quicksilver moment of the dragonfly. Each moment, each person is not to be repeated. We have what we have and if we are lucky, we have people we love, who love us. We have friends and we have things we are passionate about.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Home again, home again. Jiggity-something.

I got home yesterday. Left the hospital in a flurry of “I dont want to see you again” type comments from the nurses and the CNAs which was sort of sweet.

I also left about as stoned as it was possible to be without overdosing, which was sort of bizarre. After stopping long enough to fill prescriptions, and getting a hamburger (real food!) I was more than halfway home when it hit me: I’m outside, and it’s Spring!

No one ever accused me of being quick on the draw when my brain is fried on chemicals. :)

Today, I feel like a junkie going through withdrawal. Apt enough, considering the drugs I was given. (And oh, how I wanted that “getting hit by a freight train” effect that comes with IV pushed Dilaudid. Wham!)

Oblivion in any form is more than merely desirable just now.

The end result of my stint in the hospital is that I am now short one gall bladder, I have a stent in my common bile duct to span a stricture, I had a sphincterotomy that *maybe* wasnt necessary (like taking out my gall bladder *maybe* wasnt necessary) and things still hurt like before. Plus a borderline affinity for IV based opoid drugs. Sigh.

Several days have passed since I started this entry. I got out of the hospital four days ago. I’ve been scheduled for more blood tests to see if “the numbers” are increasing again. If they are, and I’ll be very surprised if they are not, based on what I feel, I’m likely headed back to the hospital again. I can’t help wonder if they arent looking in the wrong place, or at the wrong thing, because all the usual treatments dont seem to have any effect. Meh. Give me an open, festering abscess any day over this unknown shit. :)

On the cancer front, (yeah, you’d think *one* front was enough) I’ll be starting the “FDA approved” experimental drug called Vorinostat fairly soon. Doc’s office has already started the process of procurement. It will be the first time he’s ever prescribed the drug, so we both get to go on a journey. Personally, I’m glad I can finally provides SOME sort of benefit to the guy, even if its just an opportunity to learn something new. Gods know he’s done enough for me.

I just realized there are no charming or witty anecdotes, or cheerfully phrased silliness to defray the onerousness of the information these posts contain, like there was in the early days.

Sorry about that, folks.

Patric

Friday, April 23, 2010

My new best friend.

Do you remember when you were a little kid, when you had a best friend with whom you always spent your time? He went everywhere with you, right? You took naps together in Kindergarten, knocked heads together wrestling on the front lawn, got matching Band-Aids from your moms whenever you got a scrape, and even when you had to pee, he was right there aiming for your Cheerio. :)

Friends that close are so very rare nowadays, it seems. We get older, get busier, and we keep in touch of course, but it’s just not the same. (Never mind the fact you’ve long since given up taking target practice with cereal in the toilet bowl.)

Well, I’m here to say I have a new best friend, as close to me as that fabled lad from early childhood, only this time the association is a bit more strained.

My new friend is something of a pain in the ass, but I just call him Pain for short.

In the hospital, nurses constantly ask you to rate your pain on a scale from one to ten. Most nurses also roll their eyes, because they know far better than most doctors how ludicrous such a scale is. Even the simplest ouch or owie can take on epic proportions if it goes on long enough.

Generally speaking, they are looking for some sort of indicator as to how well their pain management regimen is working. If the number goes down, then things must be improving. Dopey me, I thought the same thing.

Saturday morning after I was released, most of the wonderful drugs I was given via direct charge through the IV had worn off, and I met my new best friend for the first time. He was rather quiet at first, and not too pushy. After all, I was sent home with several nifty little scripts that I could trade for almost as lovely drugs, right?

In the wee small hours of the morning, however, my pal came back, more insistent than ever, and while I originally thought he had just moved in, I discovered he was there the whole time, muffled by chemicals and circumstance.

Do you remember when you were a little kid, and you got into an argument with your best friend? The war was as legendary as the relationship was close, and you both rocked in the aftermath.

Same thing nowadays, trust me. My new buddy was incensed that I tried to muzzle his caterwauling, and he’s not about to let me forget it! He pitched a fit of legendary proportions that lasted an entire week, and oh how soft and weak I’ve become in my old age. My new best friend pretty much had me cowed and quivering, and at his mercy until yesterday, when dear sweet Liz, and Doc came up with a solution. Something about a patch that lasts for three days, delivering a constant dose of what I hope will be a lovely drug to keep my new best friend quiet long enough that I can get some work done, if not actually sleep.

While I wait for insurance to approve it, Doc altered the dosage for oral Dilaudid to the point where, for the first time since I got out of the hospital, I could think of something
other
than my pal and his persistence.

Those who follow regularly will have seen the signs. I could play in the lists for a little while last night, and behind the scenes, I could actually work on edits!

I know for a fact that my buddy and I will be just as close as any other best friend I’ve ever had, and likely for the rest of my life. He’s taught me a great deal already, too. Not the least of which is a clear understanding of how persistence throws that damnable 1 to 10 scale right out the window, and how soft and squishy I’ve become.

I can deal with that, now that I understand, and with Doc’s help, I can even shut the guy up once in a while, because sometimes, when you argue with your best friend, it’s good to actually have the last word. :)

Cheers!

Patric

A Tale Of Three Curmudgeons

Jean Lorrah

The first time I met Patric Michael in person we had already been friends and colleagues for several years—but the day he met Jacqueline Lichtenberg and me in Seattle (where we were teaching a writing workshop at a science fiction convention) was the first time I had any idea what he looked like. Don't believe that's possible? Try to find a picture of Patric online. He has to be the only person in the world who is both active online and imageless! If you Google for images under his name you will find his book covers and lots of photos of people with names similar to his—but not one photo of Patric himself. Even in the Facebook photos open only to his friends, his photos are partial, hidden, ambiguous, or of other people. That's Patric—a paradox of openness and privacy.

Jacqueline has told you how we met Patric through our online writing school, and how he slowly but surely became an integral part of simegen.com. He's a curmudgeon, but that's fine, as we are pretty curmudgeonly ourselves. But at first it was difficult to determine how far we could trust this person we knew so little about, and who thought in such a different way.

If you know Patric only through his most recent blogging (or, as many people tend to do, conflate the author with characters in his books), you may think he is a very open and emotionally sharing person by nature. If you have known Patric for more than a year, though, you know how protective he is of his private self, so giving the keys to our domain server to someone we didn’t “know” in the conventional sense was quite an act of trust. The strangest part, though, was that Patric wasn't sure if he could trust us!