The Long and Winding and Plummeting and Corkscrewing Road

Topless coasters beat cancer coasters every day of the week.

Within the first couple of years of marriage, Karen and I went to Disney World for some ungodly reason. I remember two things from that trip: We saw The Matrix one afternoon and Karen got over her fear of roller-coasters thanks to a coaster simulator that let you design your own track and then allowed you to experience that ride from the safe confines of a gyro-pod kinda thing. Once she mastered the virtual coaster, Karen was ready for the real deal. It's a good thing she put that roller-coaster trepidation behind her because things have been wildly up and down ever since she was diagnosed a year and a half ago.

At this point in our Cancer Coaster it seems we are currently in the prolonged climb phase, that extended, attenuated ascent that ratchets up dread for the inevitable plunge ahead. Karen's latest chemo treatment was just yesterday and true to form, she's wiped out today and freely making use of our stock of Chem 4 weed. And while we should be getting all filled up on dread we, quite surprisingly, are not. Maybe it's because we've been on this shitty ride for a long time now.

While the chemo treatment itself went fine, there are some troubling indicators asserting themselves. Karen's energy is definitely down. Granted, the last few days were over 100 here but even prior to that she was flagging. She has also begun coughing again. Not a ton and not as severely as she was back when we discovered the cancer, but still....there's no good explanation for it. Finally, the cancer markers in her blood tests are steadily increasing. The markers are not through the roof by any means (they could be much higher) but they've been trending upwards for awhile now. This unholy trinity is possibly maybe perhaps potentially a clue that the maintenance chemo is already losing effectiveness.

Then again, maybe not. In any event, we will know soon since Karen has another scan scheduled within the next couple of weeks. If the news is bad, we know the course ahead: she'll take a new just-approved oral med depending on availability. Barring that--or if it doesn't work--she'll try a new kind of chemo. The prospect of moving on to Plan C and/or Plan D is not especially uplifting but we are not freaking out. After all the times we were certain doom awaited and it wasn't (as well as the times we mistakenly thought all was well) we have learned not to worry all that much and just wait it out. The cancer will update us in due time. It's very good and reliable with that.

Rather, we save our freaking out for the truly surprising. Case in point, the other night I finally wandered in to bed at my usual and perfectly normal 3AM bedtime. Karen, as usual, was asleep on my side of the bed even though my Sleep Number is set to something like "Haphazard Pile of Bricks" and her half is set to "So Soft You Might Actually Sink to the Earth's Core." As usual, I gently shook her shoulder and softly asked her to move over. She didn't. I asked again, I shook again, and again nothing . I tried to move her a third time, more firmly, and still nothing happened. Except my heart began racing even as it dropped. I couldn't hear her breathing and she did not seem to be moving. Now, anytime up to about a year and a half ago, I'd have just unceremoniously shoved her over because I'm classy like that but this time, this night, my unresponsive and unmoving wife elicited a whole different kind of response, namely, panic that that prankster cancer had accelerated his schedule for a fantastic last practical joke.

At this point, I shook her roughly and barked her name and she finally rolled over to her side, still asleep and completely oblivious to the fact that it took me about an hour to calm down enough to finally fall asleep myself.