Chemo on Friday. Treatment #6. Then, on May 21st, a CT scan, following up with the doctor on May 23rd.

Possible scenarios? Essentially, there are two. The ugly one: signs of new growth, which would necessitate deciding on a new treatment option. Highly unlikely, given the progress we saw on the scan which followed the third treatment. The likeliest one: no further change, or further signs of tumor reduction, both of which would earn me a 2-3 month break. {WOOOOOOT!)

There actually was a third scenario, which involved seeing an exponential increase in tumor reduction, indicating a slow-starting, accelerating response, which would warrant continuing the current treatment. Dr. Khuri described this as even more 'highly unlikely' than the ugly scenario, above, so I didn't press him for an explanation as to how a CT scan would reveal this rare, 'slow-starting, accelerating response' - as nice as an 'exponential increase in tumor reduction' sounds, I just don't think I could stand continuing treatment right now.

Depression is a near-constant these days (and nights) - part and parcel of the Whole Damned Thing, a symptom of cancer...or chemotherapy.

But as I move (read: shuffle) through my days (and nights), little things happen, and sustain me.

Like the sudden burst of drums, the opening riff on Dire Strait's "Down To The Waterline," an anthem of my misspent youth, heard again for the first time in years.

Like the shocking appearance of a red-tailed hawk in a tree outside my window. Silent. Still. Majestic. Completely indifferent to the frantic blue jay dive-bombing his (or her?) head, serenely ducking each frenzied attack, then dropping from the branch, taking wing, calmly flying off in his (or her) own sweet time.

Like the radiant smile of the woman at Doc Chey's as she says, in response to my requesting a second fortune cookie in my to-go order for the sweetie waiting at home: "You're a fortunate man."

I am.

Sorry for the long lag. As treatment lengthens, my fatigue worsens, to the point where even sitting at a computer and typing a few lines seems an insurmountable challenge.

Today is an unseasonable COLD Saturday morning, one day post-treatment #5. I haven't had my Neulasta yet - I'll be giving myself the injection this afternoon - so I am feeling relatively OK. Groggy - they've taken me off Reglan, which may be what has been causing the absolutely horrid restless legs, and replaced it with Phenergan, which leaves me happily drowsy.

I'm taking both Zofran and Phenergan prophylactically, before any nausea starts, since last time I waited too long and then couldn't keep any anti-nausea meds on board, resulting in an entire night of puking, the first actual vomiting since treatment started in January.

I've been 100% compliant with the Lovenox since the PE scare, yet I still had another clot in my leg this week...this time in my right inner thigh. Painful, but not anything to worry about, apparently. Lovenox, come to find out, doesn't dissolve existing clots, but rather prevents new ones from forming, and an existing clot can linger for months, especially if it is long.

In other news: The Invisible Man, Dr. Fanucchi, pulled off the biggest disappearing act ever - he's left Winship for St. Vincent's. My new doctor, Dr. Khuri, is head of Medical Oncology, and very nice.

When I saw him on Wednesday, I asked him about the discrepancies in my recent CT scan reports...while the one report reports all sorts of good news about shrinking, cavitating, and otherwise withering nodes, the other reports "no change" - to the same exact nodes. (Odder still: the interpretations are by the same radiologist.)

What, I asked, did he (Dr. Khuri) make of this?

"Oh, I prefer to go with the positive report."

Go with a POSITIVE report?! Who are you, and what have you done with my medical oncologist?!

In closing, I've thrown a few more pics up...just me, bald, trying to smile for the camera, pre-treatments #4 and #5. The smile is fading - stretching into a bit of a grimace - but I'm still here.