The Physics of Time

I know I promised days ago to deliver a post on What Comes Next. Here's where the strange physics of time come into play--time is disappearing at a much faster rate than normal. You'd think I'd have some explanation for it, having read E=MC 2 for couples' book club last year, but my mind is not capable of thinking beyond the basics like "What day is it today?" and "Did I remember to shower?"

I've decided having a seriously ill child is remarkably like bringing home your first baby. No sleep, high stress, and very little confidence in yourself as a parent.

Not that Jacob appears seriously ill at all. He's been to school, on average, every other day. He's playing with his friends, doing homework (with the usual amount of protesting), and sleeping well. He hasn't has to take any medication for pain or nausea since the first weekend we brought him home. His hair is still present. All in all, it's way too easy to be lulled into thinking all will be well with very little effort involved.

And then comes a day like yesterday where I'm reminded of what's going on.

Yesterday was our first visit to the Huntsman Cancer Hospital. It's beautiful, it's welcoming, and we're in very good hands for the radiation. We did the radiation treatment planning yesterday, which involved a lot of lying still on uncomfortable boards for Jacob while they did CT scans and PET scans and made his treatment mask. (The mask allows them to make sure his head in the right position every time and to not have to tatoo the necessary marks on his face.) We're scheduled to begin radiation treatment on January 29, as long as his blood counts are high enough. Pray that they will be, because radiation is something I just want to get started so we can finish it sooner.

That's the big news of the week. Tomorrow is his second outpatient chemo, we're not anticipating any problems. He'll be admitted to Primary's on January 24 for his next big round of chemo, for which they'll keep him overnight.

I've decided not to make any more promises about posting WHAT COMES NEXT because the "comes next" stuff just keeps coming without giving me a week or two to catch up with it on this blog. So I'll try and fill in randomly as we go along.

Here's the random facts for today: The chemo protocol Jake is doing is known as VAC. It stands for Vincristine/dActinomycine/Cyclophosphamide (or Cytoxan).

He receives Vincristine every week in the outpatient clinic. He receives the other two in combination with Vincristine during his once-every-three-weeks overnight stay.

And my happiest moment of the week? When the radiation oncologist, Dr. Lynn Smith, said yesterday, "His cheek has really gone down. I can tell the chemo's working just by looking at him."

Hooray!

And one other random thought I had yesterday--PET stands for Positron Emission Test. All I could think when I read that was, "Doesn't Data have a positronic brain? Will this scan turn him into an android capable of working on the Starship Enterprise?"