Tuesday: February 7, 2012

I’m resting comfortably in my recliner as Day 2 of my second round of chemotherapy gets under way.

Unlike after the first day of Round One, I’ve gotten a few hours of sleep with Xanax pushing me into unconsciousness around 2 a.m.

I felt well enough to drive myself to radiation and chemotherapy. Technical issues caused a delay in radiation.  The problem? A balky computer mouse, the technicians said.

Didi was waiting for Lawrence, which gave us another chance to chat and to hold hands and pray for the day – that day – that God had given us. It felt good. It felt right.

She also asked me a surprising question.

“Are you terminal?”

“Semi,” I replied.

She nodded her head and did not seek further explanation. I think she understood. The question did not bother me. Two colleagues had tried to ask a similar question, but it seemed more out of morbid curiosity than concern for my well-being.

So, what does “semi” mean? In my mind, it means I might survive this disease but chances are I won't. 

I want desperately to be an outlier, to take advantage of the Gillispie gene pool and live another 40 or 50 years. My Uncle Dana died at the age of 97 when his body finally wore out. My father is 92 and, although he is physically limited in what he can do, he is not going anywhere soon.

Both men were Marines and survived some some of the grimmest of fighting in the Pacific during World War II. Why the hell can't I survive this?

“Semi.”

The delays at the Clinic made me a half hour late for chemo. Joanne was there. She wore an attractive hat and her color was much better than yesterday's ashen hue. She had wrapped herself in a blanket and awaited the medicine that might keep her alive. That's all she wanted. A chance.

Joanne cried and practically begged for treatment yesterday after the results of a blood test caused concern. Her chemo regimen is the Hail Mary that oncologists throw toward after the stuff I'm getting refuses to do its job.

It rarely works, but she doesn't care. She wants a chance.

Joanne shushed me when I tried to tell her about the darkness I have seen.

“Don't think about that,” she said.

Joanne finished treatment and stopped by my recliner on the way out. “You remember what I told you,” she admonished.

I nodded. I need Joanne. I need her strength. I need her blessings. This is not a fight I can win alone.