Dancing With Cancer (excerpt)

        Friday meant another trip to the oncologist for a blood test. While waiting for the results, the nurse chatted about diet and dealing with the mouth sores. The test came back. The nurse took one look at it and said, "Hmmm. I need to see the doctor," and walked away. Well! What did that mean?

        She came back with the news that, lo and behold I had ZERO white blood cells! ZERO! Actually, I think I had two left (Maude and Ralph), and they were too busy mounting an attack in my mouth to show up for the test. It appears that, while my immune system was depressed from all the chemo drugs, an opportunistic infection had moved into my mouth like a bunch of thugs into a poorly policed neighborhood and were causing all the havoc.

        I got a prescription for a kick-ass antibiotic and a terrific mouthwash called (write this one down) "The Stanford Mouthwash." It's some formula the Stanford doctors concocted and has to be mixed by a compounding pharmacist (not just a pill dispenser), and kept refrigerated. And, of course, being not-a-brand-name-or-generic drug, it's not covered by insurance. No problem. This stuff works, and it's worth the $60. That and the antibiotic went to the rescue of the beleaguered but valiant Maude and Ralph, and I was already feeling better Friday afternoon. Not great, but vastly improved. Saturday and Sunday, I actually ate carefully chewed real food, and my taste buds have gradually recovered. I'll check in with the oncologist Monday for another blood test and see if my white blood cell count has risen sufficiently. If not, they promised yet another drug to prod my bone marrow into producing more white blood cells.

        Now, did you need to know all that? I don't know, but I do know it helps me to write this all down each week. I found years ago that, whether I'm reporting on a meeting or conference I've attended or sharing a personal crisis with a friend through correspondence, writing is awesome therapy. The process of analyzing, organizing, and describing, and getting it out of my head and onto paper (or computer screen), transfers the event from active memory to storage and I can focus forward again. If the event has painful emotional tags attached to it, the humor, whether I can find it in the situation or have to inject it myself, seems to remove the tag. Making myself smile while I write this, and thinking that perhaps you smiled as you read this, is good therapy too.

        To close, I have one more request, folks, especially of you who dance in one of my three classes. My immune system is compromised right now and I'm highly vulnerable to infections. If you have a cold or flu symptoms, please, *please* stay home from dance class. I promise I'll miss you, but it's important to me that you not come near me. The bacteria and germs can be passed from hand to hand and on to me and will make me very sick, very quickly. My body has enough to do killing marauding cancer cells right now. I (as well as Maude and Ralph) will appreciate it!

        As the email list grows, I know the positive thoughts flowing my way increase. Thanks for all the little things so many of you do for me. Thanks for being there.