The Adequate Caregiver

Apparently, the day after Thanksgiving is National Pie for Breakfast Day. We propose a virtual joint celebration in honor of Scott’s spectacular scans and his one wonky lymph node looking no wonkier than it did previously. On top of that good news, because he has passed his one year mark in remission he will be scanned every 6 months instead of every 2. He still will go in for frequent blood draws, but that is something he can do on his lunch hour without even putting down his beloved IPad.

Now that the stress and the totally insane logistics, even if there hadn’t been any snow, of his scans are behind us, we are letting our hair down at the Goffe/Schrum/Miss Kitty residence. We might just go crazy and have pie for lunch too.

Dr. Picozzi doesn’t want him to be injected with too many different radioactive dyes too frequently so they will discuss the trip to London before his next scans. Since we already have tickets to Paris for Maya’s spring break – a real vacation – we might be able to add a jaunt through London, although it is clear that the company of his family is less desired than the ability to test-drive cars on the autobahn. Admittedly, the urgency of the trip to London comes less from Scott’s health concerns and more from the fact that the last car maintenance (or home maintenance record, for tat matter) that either of us could find was from mid-2008.

In case you ever questioned it, that rule about changing your oil every 3 months or 3,000 miles is total hype. We aren’t sure how far that rule can be pushed, but it is a good guess that 3 years may be the outside limit. I solved that concern by trading mine in 2 months ago when Scott wrote down his last set of scans for the wrong day and I showed up in oncology to see his doctor 24 hours early. Seattle BMW employs a “don’t ask don’t tell” policy and with a smile, they accepted 5 years of service records for the 8 years I owned the car.

My head has been swirling with ideas to write about and things to update our friends and family with. But life has also been swirling too much to find the time to put it all down on paper. Last week I was in Sioux Falls, South Dakota wondering how people function when the weather is below 20 degrees and the wind blows at 1000 mph with nothing to stop it until it hits the Peace Arch in Saint Louis, Missouri. Except for feeling like I had been dropped on the Mongolian Plains, Sioux Falls was lovely. The people were lovely. Some of my colleagues thought that this was masterminded as a punishment. But surprisingly, I discovered that I love Bison burgers slathered in an avalanche of cheese accompanied by a martini and but for this trip, it is likely I never would have known that.

I may have been the only one in the airport not carrying a rifle for pheasant and deer hunting season, and that is not an exaggeration. My hotel had been taken over by a convention of dentists earning continuing education credit in the wee morning hours, leaving enough time to tote a rifle and kill things with one hand with a beer in the other.

It has been 20++ years since my grad. school roommate in Israel slept with an M-16 with a grenade launcher under her bed just in case she got called up to active duty. So, my recollection is vague. But I could swear that some of the rifles I saw as each man (and it was all men) opened his metal locking case at the United Terminal before checking it through were of similar proportions.

It was a warm homey touch that the enormous brass sculpture of Joe Foss (former president of the NRA, among other accomplishments) was looking down on us. I envisioned Charlton Heston on Mount Sinai receiving the 10 Commandments, one of which is “thou shalt kill anything winged or on 4 legs, and eat it.” It’s no fair just finding it on the side of the road, but Scott was in Arkansas the week before (one of his many unusual bucket list excursions), where that prohibition might be more lax.

Those weapons could have taken out a small town along with a pheasant (relieving it of its feathers and guts simultaneously), or a medium sized Tyrannosaurus Rex. The signs throughout the airport reminded me that guns must be in hard-sided, metal, locking cases. What I really needed to be reminded of is that I didn’t need my lovely designer suit. I needed an orange jumpsuit, to waive my arms wildly and yell “I love the NRA.” I will keep this in mind for next time. I hope there is a next time, but during a different season. I loved that bison burger.

I also almost feel cheated that I missed out on getting "felt up" by the TSA. It seems that I traveled through the only airports not doing it yet. Everyone else I have spoken to who has flown this week has stories. As far as flying is concerned, it is one big indignity, so added humiliation only increases the potential for a better story, as far as I am concerned.

So, about Scott. That is ostensibly what I am supposed to be writing about. Our activities this week remind me of a game of rock, paper, scissors, except that snow can cover anything. Scott started his nuclear bowel cleanse scanapalooza on Sunday. On Monday night we received a call that Tuesday and Wednesday were being cancelled due to the weather. We received a confirming cancellation call this morning at 7 a.m. Then at 2 p.m. Nurse Ratchet (but with less charm) called to find out where he was. They had his radioisotope milkshake and a billion dollars worth of machinery on standby and as far as she was concerned he was AWOL.

Add in that school was cancelled. It was supposed to get out at noon on Wednesday, right in the middle of Scott’s meeting with his oncologist and my meeting that was set around the schedule of a dozen other people, and therefore not easily changed for my routine mayhem. Scott and I discussed many iterations of Maya, Scans, Wendy’s job, for each phase of the week, and mostly had it worked out, until snow covered all. After the initial panic of having to rearrange and improvise, it seems that it all has turned out to be a little easier than expected. AND it allowed us all to spend a little bit more time hanging out with our NEW CAT – Miss Kitty – 7 pounds of love and part Bengal, which means that we often find her in places she can’t get down from. She has a recognizable meow that means “HELP, I got up here and now I can’t figure out how the heck to get back down.” She adores Scott and spends as much time as she can on his lap. I have discovered my inner crazy cat lady and the three of us will get through our rock paper scissors extravaganza of a week with the warmth of Miss Kitty, a few days for Scott to recover on the couch and an organic, free range, locavore, seasonally appropriate but not particularly exciting Thanksgiving dinner, from Whole Foods.

We are thankful for all of the love support and friendship we receive every day and that we don’t have to spend Thanksgiving in a hospital cafeteria.

Next up, whether or not Scott will fly to London for a Gallium-68 test or another round of chemo. This test is used to detect the recurrence of non-secreting neuroendocrine cancer. It may be used as a prophylactic chemo as well. This, among other things, will be a topic of discussion when he/we (depending on how the rocks, paper and scissors shake out) will discuss with Dr. Picozzi post-scans.

Really, it comes down to the fact that Scott has on his bucket list buying a car in Sweden or Germany, and a round of chemo for a guy who has gone through as much as he has is an indignity he is unwilling to tolerate to check off another item on the list.