Just a quick update. Yesterday's "all clear" report from Dr. Goff gave us the go ahead to celebrate a year of remission. Despite having successfully maneuvered through two rounds of chemotherapy without vomiting, Jamie apparently does not have similar resistance to Mai Tais. But still the Blues Travellers at the Showbox was a just the right way to let go of the anxieties of the week between scan and exam.
I can not think of anything else I could be more thankful for.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Today was another all day stretch at the UWMC and SCCA. Jamie was scheduled for her 6 month CT scan, so we coordinated our follow up with Mercy the genetics counselor for the same day.
Now that we have Jamie’s primary care under control, it is now time to ask “why”? Genetic research is a hot topic of course and the UW medical machine appears to be keeping up with the trend. A few weeks ago the Jamie, Jennifer, Christie and I met with Mercy to discuss procedure and objectives. Jamie, eager to benefit her immediate family as well as society in general gave consent imediately. This meant a simple blood draw, coordinated of course, with Jamie’s regular port flush.
So today was the follow up and discussion of the results. Initially they are looking for a mutation of the BCRA1 and BCRA2 genes. Jamie’s test shows that she has neither. While this itself is good news as it appears to eliminate the most common genetic link both maternal and paternal, the work has not yet ended. If Jamie’s relative’s will be kind enough to let someone shove a camera up their bums and then share the results, we will be able to investigate the possibility of what our able clinician referred to as “Lynch” syndrome, which is not to be confused with any impulse to carry out capitol punishment. Those looking for more on the science can simply use google as regurgitation of facts is not the purpose here. What I will bring, and my audience now expects, is the story behind the story.
Now I must be tactful and withhold many of the juiciest of details as it was revealed to me on sunday that our professional team holds a connection to someone within our intimate circle.
During our initial consult with Mercy, introductions between the women were the usual superficial “very nice to meet you” with femininely limp hand shakes and multiple nods. But when she turned to me, our hands clutched and there was a brief pause. With that ambiguous, one eye row raised look the said “oh, you’re the husband, I have heard about you” and turned away.
My mind raced. Was it some sort of security warning in the file about me and my inclination to wander down dark halls and peek in unsecured cabinets? Or was I the topic of discussion at one of those after hours nurse parties at the little Mexican cantina on Boat street where the put on their “dress” nurse uniforms of short skirts, v neck top and little white hat, and do shots of tequila in various most erotic ways (trust me this has been self censored already)? Or maybe the SCCA staff has misread my previous writings not as whit, but as critique and black listed me?
But today Mercy was all business, except a brief lapse where she talked about how cute Brian and Katie’s kids were, (and who doesn’t already know that), and really proved her scientific skill. Despite my attempts to throw her off guard with the inevitable engineer geek questions about the arithmetic of genetics, she was rock solid. As I probed she remained unaffected and then laid down her trump card. A perfectly drawn, symboled and annotated family tree for Jamie. I was intimidated. Straight lines, archaic symbols, room to write additional notes. Truly admirable.
So still searching for answers as to my status in the UWMC community, we left the CHDD complex with our parking ticket validated.
Jamie, knowing that the agony of a procedure such as a CT scan would not fulfill her sadistic needs, agreed to make the most of our two hour break and accompany me to Recycled Cycles. She once again proved her love to me by standing by while I tried on every fluorescent yellow jacket, plus a couple of standard hues, comparing zippers, stitching and armpit vents. After accepting advice from a modestly pierced clerk and making my clothing selection, I could tell that Jamie wanted more. So next was neoprene shoe covers. Mountain bike style, or the more simplistic road biker’s? Or maybe just the over the toe types? Wait should I go to the car and get my cycling shoes and try them on? Why not? What about gloves? If I buy women’s because I have small hands will that make me look gay? Are you having fun honey? It was a true test of her endurance. And then wait, maybe none of these is what I want as the clerk and I discuss fenders and how they actually might be what I really need. So with apparel behind me, onto the real focus of the store “parts”. But I knew I had gone too far. So one quick lap and to the register to cash out.
It was nearly 1 pm when we arrived at the SCCA and straight to floor 2 we went. In their usual efficiency we were swept through reception and into the waiting area. This is the worst part for Jamie. She is veteran enough to know what is coming. Despite my jokes about her berry (really read barium) milkshake, I decline a sample when offered. We do get some relief though as a Joan Rivers like character reflects with her daughter on the excessive botox use of a friend. “Why would you want fat lips?, I only get it in my forehead”. “Can you move your eyebrows mom?” “ Well dear I think so, but I guess I haven’t tried” “You know so and so has it done every few weeks, I only go every other month. You can’t get rid of ALL of the wrinkles, that would be just crazy” “Did you know that botox can cure migraines?” “ So if you just tell your Dr. you get really bad headaches you can get your insurance company to pay for your botox!”
If you are outgoing, the waiting area can be a great place to meet all sorts of colorful people. When Jamie went back to get her port accessed, I invited a fellow to join me on the couch. He was a bit crippled and walked with a cane, but smiled continuously none the less. Soon it became apparent that his physical disability was only minor compared to the barking from his companion, who rode an electric scooter. She repeated several times that “I am going to wait up front” in a sort of anticipatory tone, but he ignored her as he was apparently much more eager to exchange pleasantries with me. Well, before she could get fully u-turned, the nurse called her name. The man let out a sigh of relief and made himself comfortable.
Now his story started out innocently enough, asking me where I went to school and then elaborating on his youth in Seattle and his champion high school basketball team. But like most of us, no matter how casual our story seems, there is always an underlying theme. So high school championship leads to a community college scholarship. That leads him to Kent. Eventually he and his girlfriend find themselves traveling on 320th in Federal Way late one night. And coincidentally some jack ass decides to cram a bunch of Busch into his gut and then four people into the cab of his pick up. They smash a couple of other cars up before plowing into this guy’s Toyota. Now based on the story teller’s hair I put the story in the 1970’s. The physics are pretty obvious. 70’s Toyota = tin can. 70’s pickup = large chunk of iron.
To quote him “that day changed my lie forever”. Although he can walk, it is with great effort and not without a cane in is one functioning hand. His companion fared no better (note she is not the same woman present day) as he says a broken back has left her in a wheel chair.
So once again we leave the SCCA with our challenges in perspective.
By the time we pull out of the parking garage it is nearly 5 o’clock and thus heavy traffic. I had been promoting the lobster special at Anthony’s for a couple of days now and Jamie agreed that a decent meal sounded better than a traffic jam. We turned to our trusty navigation system and eventually found our way through the Norwegian ghetto of Ballard to the Anthony’s at the end of the ship canal.
I felt conspicuously underdressed, not having my musty corduroy sport coat or faux leather Velcro shoes. But they seated us none the less, just in time for the sunset dinner special. We enjoyed our meal as we eavesdropped on thrilling conversations as “the good thing about my medication is that I don’t have to get up to pee so often” and other such intricacies of the golden years.
Chuckling as we watched old men pick the raisins out of their rice, (we will admit we found the taste weird as well), we unwound from our busy day and reflected on our gratuity for Jamie’s health and the time we have enjoyed together.
Now that we have Jamie’s primary care under control, it is now time to ask “why”? Genetic research is a hot topic of course and the UW medical machine appears to be keeping up with the trend. A few weeks ago the Jamie, Jennifer, Christie and I met with Mercy to discuss procedure and objectives. Jamie, eager to benefit her immediate family as well as society in general gave consent imediately. This meant a simple blood draw, coordinated of course, with Jamie’s regular port flush.
So today was the follow up and discussion of the results. Initially they are looking for a mutation of the BCRA1 and BCRA2 genes. Jamie’s test shows that she has neither. While this itself is good news as it appears to eliminate the most common genetic link both maternal and paternal, the work has not yet ended. If Jamie’s relative’s will be kind enough to let someone shove a camera up their bums and then share the results, we will be able to investigate the possibility of what our able clinician referred to as “Lynch” syndrome, which is not to be confused with any impulse to carry out capitol punishment. Those looking for more on the science can simply use google as regurgitation of facts is not the purpose here. What I will bring, and my audience now expects, is the story behind the story.
Now I must be tactful and withhold many of the juiciest of details as it was revealed to me on sunday that our professional team holds a connection to someone within our intimate circle.
During our initial consult with Mercy, introductions between the women were the usual superficial “very nice to meet you” with femininely limp hand shakes and multiple nods. But when she turned to me, our hands clutched and there was a brief pause. With that ambiguous, one eye row raised look the said “oh, you’re the husband, I have heard about you” and turned away.
My mind raced. Was it some sort of security warning in the file about me and my inclination to wander down dark halls and peek in unsecured cabinets? Or was I the topic of discussion at one of those after hours nurse parties at the little Mexican cantina on Boat street where the put on their “dress” nurse uniforms of short skirts, v neck top and little white hat, and do shots of tequila in various most erotic ways (trust me this has been self censored already)? Or maybe the SCCA staff has misread my previous writings not as whit, but as critique and black listed me?
But today Mercy was all business, except a brief lapse where she talked about how cute Brian and Katie’s kids were, (and who doesn’t already know that), and really proved her scientific skill. Despite my attempts to throw her off guard with the inevitable engineer geek questions about the arithmetic of genetics, she was rock solid. As I probed she remained unaffected and then laid down her trump card. A perfectly drawn, symboled and annotated family tree for Jamie. I was intimidated. Straight lines, archaic symbols, room to write additional notes. Truly admirable.
So still searching for answers as to my status in the UWMC community, we left the CHDD complex with our parking ticket validated.
Jamie, knowing that the agony of a procedure such as a CT scan would not fulfill her sadistic needs, agreed to make the most of our two hour break and accompany me to Recycled Cycles. She once again proved her love to me by standing by while I tried on every fluorescent yellow jacket, plus a couple of standard hues, comparing zippers, stitching and armpit vents. After accepting advice from a modestly pierced clerk and making my clothing selection, I could tell that Jamie wanted more. So next was neoprene shoe covers. Mountain bike style, or the more simplistic road biker’s? Or maybe just the over the toe types? Wait should I go to the car and get my cycling shoes and try them on? Why not? What about gloves? If I buy women’s because I have small hands will that make me look gay? Are you having fun honey? It was a true test of her endurance. And then wait, maybe none of these is what I want as the clerk and I discuss fenders and how they actually might be what I really need. So with apparel behind me, onto the real focus of the store “parts”. But I knew I had gone too far. So one quick lap and to the register to cash out.
It was nearly 1 pm when we arrived at the SCCA and straight to floor 2 we went. In their usual efficiency we were swept through reception and into the waiting area. This is the worst part for Jamie. She is veteran enough to know what is coming. Despite my jokes about her berry (really read barium) milkshake, I decline a sample when offered. We do get some relief though as a Joan Rivers like character reflects with her daughter on the excessive botox use of a friend. “Why would you want fat lips?, I only get it in my forehead”. “Can you move your eyebrows mom?” “ Well dear I think so, but I guess I haven’t tried” “You know so and so has it done every few weeks, I only go every other month. You can’t get rid of ALL of the wrinkles, that would be just crazy” “Did you know that botox can cure migraines?” “ So if you just tell your Dr. you get really bad headaches you can get your insurance company to pay for your botox!”
If you are outgoing, the waiting area can be a great place to meet all sorts of colorful people. When Jamie went back to get her port accessed, I invited a fellow to join me on the couch. He was a bit crippled and walked with a cane, but smiled continuously none the less. Soon it became apparent that his physical disability was only minor compared to the barking from his companion, who rode an electric scooter. She repeated several times that “I am going to wait up front” in a sort of anticipatory tone, but he ignored her as he was apparently much more eager to exchange pleasantries with me. Well, before she could get fully u-turned, the nurse called her name. The man let out a sigh of relief and made himself comfortable.
Now his story started out innocently enough, asking me where I went to school and then elaborating on his youth in Seattle and his champion high school basketball team. But like most of us, no matter how casual our story seems, there is always an underlying theme. So high school championship leads to a community college scholarship. That leads him to Kent. Eventually he and his girlfriend find themselves traveling on 320th in Federal Way late one night. And coincidentally some jack ass decides to cram a bunch of Busch into his gut and then four people into the cab of his pick up. They smash a couple of other cars up before plowing into this guy’s Toyota. Now based on the story teller’s hair I put the story in the 1970’s. The physics are pretty obvious. 70’s Toyota = tin can. 70’s pickup = large chunk of iron.
To quote him “that day changed my lie forever”. Although he can walk, it is with great effort and not without a cane in is one functioning hand. His companion fared no better (note she is not the same woman present day) as he says a broken back has left her in a wheel chair.
So once again we leave the SCCA with our challenges in perspective.
By the time we pull out of the parking garage it is nearly 5 o’clock and thus heavy traffic. I had been promoting the lobster special at Anthony’s for a couple of days now and Jamie agreed that a decent meal sounded better than a traffic jam. We turned to our trusty navigation system and eventually found our way through the Norwegian ghetto of Ballard to the Anthony’s at the end of the ship canal.
I felt conspicuously underdressed, not having my musty corduroy sport coat or faux leather Velcro shoes. But they seated us none the less, just in time for the sunset dinner special. We enjoyed our meal as we eavesdropped on thrilling conversations as “the good thing about my medication is that I don’t have to get up to pee so often” and other such intricacies of the golden years.
Chuckling as we watched old men pick the raisins out of their rice, (we will admit we found the taste weird as well), we unwound from our busy day and reflected on our gratuity for Jamie’s health and the time we have enjoyed together.
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