Lymph Blog # 39

3/8/2012

This morning I’m back in the chemo lounge for a round of Rituxin.  A few familiar faces today but it’s a small crowd so far.  The Lörrach doc and the Freiburg doc agreed that this should continue for now to keep the levels of this antibody to acceptable levels in my blood while we wait on the insurance company’s decision.  We’re still prying for a rapid resolution to this question so I might begin the stem cell procedure next week.  Today it’s five or so hours in the chair in an antihistamine fog but no chemo this week.

Since having enough exposure to the German language,  I’ve always been a little surprised, now even more so, with the German word for cancer.  In English cancer has pretty much one meaning taken either literally or metaphorically.  You can have cancer – sometimes referred to those reluctant to even say it as the “C-word”.  No one wants to hear it applied to themselves or to someone they care for.  I did not  believe it would ever be a threat to me.  There’s little of it in the family history.  I thought my life threatening options would be heart disease or, as I usually term accidental demise, “being hit by a bus”.  So cancer, especially well-advanced cancer,  was a bit of a shocker – still is from time to time. 

Metaphorically we might speak of some societal ill as a “cancer”.  “Crystal meth is a cancer eating at the fabric of rural America.”  That sort of usage still denotes something you’d rather not have.  The only other meaning I can think of right now as the antihistamine begins to lighten my head, is the sign of the zodiac – Cancer.  I am not a Cancer (I know, it’s an invitation to riff on finding identity itself but I’m not going to go there), my sign is more bovine than crustaceous although thinking of either one does whet the appetite.  Surf n’ Turf!  That takes us to the German word for cancer – Krebs – just like the zodiac sign.  Krebs = Crabs.  Ich habe Krebs – too weird!  There are a fair number of folks around these parts that even have that name (five in the Kandern phonebook).  “Hello there, Cancer speaking.”  There’s a building firm advertised in the local paper named Krebs.  “You can trust your new home to Cancer Builders” – how would that fly in the States?

I spent the whole morning yesterday writing a detailed letter regarding my case history so far.  This I submitted to the insurance company along with various documents supporting the diagnosis.  My original request for pre-approval (“We will respond within forty-eight hours” promised on the electronic application) went out a week ago.  If I’m going to do this stem cell deal I’d like to start next week so please continue to pray for resolution.  (Writing interrupted by growing fogginess)…

I did call the company after my return home today.  The representative I’ve been speaking with said the packet I sent yesterday was helpful but they still needed to get through to the doc here.  The rep also seemed to indicate that she didn’t see a big problem with approval coming through so I sent another email off requesting that the doc in Freiburg “pencil me in” – he trained for a number of years in Chicago, he should catch the idiom.

I became an actor in a mini-drama in the chemo room today.  I sat in a chair, as yet unblessed by my body, the same chair that I’ve seen a repairman working on once before.  Well, he’ll have to come back.  Having to make a trip to the men’s room I  elevated my chemolounger (Would that be a Krebsruherstuhl auf Deutsch?) to the upright position.  A series of unconscionably loud hard plastic grinding and popping sound emanated from below.  The crowd was duly impressed with wide eyes and smiles.   The chair did elevate and I clipped off my feed tube (you’ve got to do that or the flow reverses and you get a tube full of blood – a very amateur mistake to seasoned health professionals of frequent infusioners), picked up my hanging bags and went off.  Upon my return those in the crowd that were not off in Dreamland recognized my wisdom in moving my stuff to the next chair and hanging my bags one hook set over. 

A brief aside from the narrative: My stuff, by the way, has been lightened through the gift of a Kindle ereader.  I know it’s a disturbing idea to those who can’t consider alternatives to paper – I still love a “real” book – but having the NIV Bible, a few free (meaning too old to have copyrights driving revenue) classics from Dumas and Twain, and, this is pretty cool for the cheapskate, a few borrowed library books (they return themselves after 21 days!) all in one slim legible package well, I’m enjoying it.

Back to the story: The room does ebb and flow with the infusion trade so it wasn’t long until a new victim arrived.  To my credit I did warn him that the chair was “kaput”, yes a real and useful German word but I don’t think it’s used by any builders for their trade name.  I didn’t have quite the linguistic skill to indicate the subtle possibilities of what might await him should he not heed my warning.  He sat down it the wounded chemolounger.  All was well until he went for the recline.  It still reclined from about 75º vertical to 0º horizontal in an unexpectedly rapid acceleration.  I was drifting by now and really didn’t see it coming but I woke enough to help him back upright.  The problem was somewhat solved by backing the chair to the wall but then one couldn’t enjoy the luxury of electronic repositioning.  After that I served in the function of lighthouse warning new patients off the reefs of kaputness.

Well. That’s the excitement for the day.