Good Friday (eBook)

Chapter 2

Friday, March 30, 2018—The Hospital

Everything was a blur to me, but I tried to act as normal as possible for my family. My next three hours consisted of endless tests and blood draws. My family stayed with me through the night.

Saturday, March 31, 2018

In the morning, I was moved to a private room. This is where I met my first angel, Miranda, a petite 4’11”, 90 pounds, with a dainty little voice to match. Miranda made regular check-ins on me and my family, and I introduced her to everyone who came by.

“You have a wonderful family,” she said. “You care a lot for each other.”

“Probably just like other families,” I replied.

She shook her head. “I don’t see many families like yours. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

It was 11 a.m. and I still had heard nothing about my test results. No doctors had come by. I knew in my heart that they were not good at all, but I had no choice but to wait. And so I waited.

Miranda swung by my room. “Have you spoken to the doctor yet?”

“No,” I replied.

She stared at me, dumbfounded and furious.

“Can you please find the oncologists and find out what’s going on?” I pleaded.

She hustled out and returned a few minutes later saying, “The doctors were arguing about whose patient you are and said they’re not coming in for another day or two.”

There was a pause; we were speechless. Then Miranda snapped, “I may get fired for this, but one of those damn doctors is going to see you today!” She turned and stomped out of my room.

From my bed, I could hear her tiny voice on the phone at the nurse’s station. She asked the first doctor if he’s coming in. She hung up. She asked the second doctor. She hung up again.

Then, my angel mustered her courage, called both doctors on a three-way conference call, and in her strongest voice said, “I don’t care which one of you is coming in today, but that nice man is not going to die because you two can’t make a decision. Call me when you figure out who it’s gonna be!” And, without waiting for an answer, she slammed the phone down.

A few moments later, she slipped into my room and said in her sweet, small voice, “I think I have a doctor for you—I just hope I don’t get fired.”

Ten minutes later, one of the doctors, Dr. Zesty, called back and said he would be in to see me by 1 p.m.

At 1 p.m., Dr. Zesty zipped into my room. Like too many doctors, Dr. Zesty was anything but zesty. He was in his late 30s with zero people skills or bedside manner. He announced: “It’s probably a blood disorder. Leukemia. But we need to determine what kind.” And with that, he stalked out. Nice.

Monday, April 9, 2018

I was having my first bone marrow biopsy, a procedure in which the doctor drills into the top part of your pelvic bone, called the iliac crest, and removes some marrow to test it for cancer cells.

In the procedure room, a friendly, familiar face greeted me. The nurse was a woman named Diane whose son I coached in baseball and basketball when my youngest son Austin played. She was professional, caring, and sad to see that it was me.

“When I saw your name on the schedule, I was shocked and saddened,” she said in a broken voice. “I made sure that you got the best doctor we have,” she said.

She then explained the entire procedure to me and introduced me to the team. They were professional and kind for which I am most grateful because, while I generally have a high pain threshold, this procedure was very painful!

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

The next morning, my biopsy results were in. A familiar face walked into my room: a client who is a department head of pathology. After a bit of small talk, she said, “I have your results.”

I could tell by her tone that it wasn’t good.

She said, “Jim, your biopsy indicates you have Acute Myeloid Leukemia FLT3-ITD. I saw the name and was really hoping it wasn’t you. I ran the test twice to be sure. I’m sorry you have this disease. The oncologist will review your prognosis with you and discuss treatment options.”

Her expression was grim, and she seemed at a loss for words.

She simply said, “I’m so sorry, Jim.”

I don’t know anything about leukemia, but I knew this wasn’t good.

Dr. Zesty came in as expected and reported the diagnosis. He ran through his plan of action. I had many questions, and they were far from my last on this new journey.

As I began asking my questions, Dr. Zesty interrupted to assure me that he knew best and that we will be following his protocol.

I shot back, “Look, I process information and make decisions after reviewing every option. If you don’t like it, then I can find another doctor.”

A big smile spread across his face. “Do your research and we will talk tomorrow.”

My #1 priority now was to identify every expert source for information about AML. I spent hours on websites for the MD Anderson Cancer Center, Johns Hopkins University, the Mayo Clinic, medical journals, you name it. I also called on several physician friends for trustworthy advice.

For the rest of the day and night, I read about treatment for AML FLT3-ITD. Common recommendations were rounds of chemo followed by a bone marrow transplant. I, of course, had even more questions now. Where do I find a donor? Where do I get treatment? Not all hospitals perform bone marrow transplants.

The next day, Dr. Zesty and I talked. He was surprised yet pleased by how thoroughly I had prepared myself.

“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” I suggested. “From now on, we will discuss every option of my treatment, and then I will decide the course of action.” He smiled with understanding.

The next few weeks in April were a whirlwind. My mind raced with countless fears and anxieties, but I tried to remain strong and calm on the outside for the sake of my family.

I am typically calm under pressure. I focus my mind and run through all the possible scenarios to arrive at the best option. I began calling my doctor friends and researching the best hospitals for my treatment.

I’d already been down this road once before when my wife was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. MD Anderson Hospital in Houston, considered the best cancer hospital in the world, was an amazing resource for my wife then and to me now.

I called their helpline, and we discussed my specific type of leukemia in great detail. They identified hospitals near me that were experienced in this type of care. With this information, I felt somewhat better.

The time came for my first chemotherapy session. It was a “7+3” meaning I’d receive two intravenous cancer-fighting drugs in a row: Cytarabine for 7 days, 12 hours per day, followed by Anthracycline for 3 days.

These drugs kill leukemia cells and decrease AML symptoms, including bleeding, bruising, and recurrent infections. The side effects consist of fever, myalgia, bone pain, skin rash, chest pain, conjunctivitis, diarrhea, and hair loss. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

I decided to call on a dear friend who, unfortunately, was also battling AML with chemo. Nancy—beautiful, smart, hilarious, and always full of energy—was diagnosed some time before me.

She is another one of my angels—a mentor, someone who always understood what I was going through, and a friend I truly loved.

When Nancy heard of my diagnosis, she cried, “No, not my James—our James—this can’t be!”

When you battle cancer, no one understands your journey unless they’ve also gone through it. My wife and sons gave me love and tremendous support, but Nancy understood.

Many don’t survive. Dealing with prolonged pain, fear, isolation, and loneliness takes a physical and mental toll. The fact that you can’t do the most basic things for yourself is frustrating.

I was an athlete most of my life, so being sedentary was maddening. But I realized that all those years of staying active and fit were like money in the bank—it was keeping me alive now.

From that day forward, Nancy and I exchanged texts at least 6-8 times a day. I just loved her.

My first round of chemo went as well as possible. I felt tired for a few weeks, then I started to get some energy back. Doctors began the process of finding a donor for me. They start with your siblings and children, although your siblings are preferred. The best your children can be is a 50% match. That can work, but they’re seeking a closer genetic match, called a 12/12.

The bone marrow donor registry they used is a worldwide one called “Be the Match.” I encourage any adult between ages 18-40 to join the registry. All it takes is a simple saliva swab of your cheek. See bethematch.org for more details.

Until they find a match for me, the chemo continues every four weeks. It’s called consolidation chemo and targets cancer cells that may still be in my body after the first round of chemo. It has many unpleasant side effects.

My son Corey was visiting one day when Dr. Zesty came in.