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SOME OF OUR CELLS LIKE THE TASTE OF REBELLION. Our DNA is deep rooted with so many cells that we didn't bother coming up with a number that has so many zeros. Sometimes we forget about these cells. So when it comes time for them to die and replace them with younger cells, they want to be remembered. They don't want to just wither away, only to be replaced. So they join forces and replicate and replicate until they kill us.
Three weeks ago, Lucille was on the brink of death while her white blood cells were having the time of their lives, dancing all over her grave. That's when I love being the party shitter. Shitting all over their cancer festival. Cancer Coachella. Leukiopalooza. Whatever. I will shut that shit down.
Lucille's festival had rollercoaster rides, all the ups and downs in its glory. Some days she would show signs of recovery and other days she would cough and the nurses would be outside her door, preparing a crash cart. She couldn't handle the imbalance in her body, which is why she didn't feel a need for a crash cart. Ignoring my suggestion to wait for a change, she signed the DNR papers with her husband to confirm the documents. I remember seeing Dean's tired eyes, his energy was drained. His plea for her to not sign them didn't even make her question her decision. I'd never seen that man so weak. I probably would never see it again.
Before she signed her life off, she did believe in hers. She told me stories during her chemo sessions, how her and her husband would take weekly trips down to Louisa. They would park their truck and take long walks by the lake, swooning over houses nearby that they couldn't afford. Once we advanced the chemotherapy, she lost more than her hair. She lost her human ambition, lust, any sign of woman left in her. Her husband and her grew apart. She stopped attending the school's baseball games, she stopped working in general.
People cannot handle pain when they no longer feel human.
Looking at Lucille's chart, her new and improved bone marrow transplant granted her baby steps. The sample in her blood taken in the morning confirmed a hint of remission; it wasn't perfection, but it was definitely progress. Up until now, it had been very rare to witness such a fast pace recovery.
Several months ago, I was so close to shipping myself in a box on a one way trip to the Bermuda Triangle. I nearly dumped all of Baltimore Medical Center's resources down the drain for one patient, and they were drilling my ass for it. With a major breakthrough coming from the hospital, guess who's ass they have to kiss now.
I had another ass to kiss of my own. Mark. Abandoning my own protocol to never stoop down to someone else's level, I owed him. Initially I was pissed that Mark didn't accept my request to place Lucille on his trial. It was during Lucille's surgery I realized that she wasn't just my patient, but also Mark's. He wanted the best for her, and he thought that this surgery wouldn't bring any for Lucille. Of course, he ended up being wrong, seeing that she's better, but he did take precaution, which is something that Mark has to follow.
I planned on winding down, finishing books and bottles of wine I never finished. But Mark quickly washed all plans of "me time" when he recommended the stay at the cabin this morning before he left.
