Scan results, other Harrys, Charlie Chaplin was a gypsy

Yesterday I had my CT scan.  My doctor called me arund 6:45pm with the results.  The scan was (in his words) "normal."  There are no traces of lymphoma.  I am in remission.  The results of the scan could not have been better and I can take comfort in the fact that my disease has been beaten down mercilessly.
So put up what you got, or sit the fuck down!!!!!
Now, I have to make a critical distinction here.  Technically, I have been "in remission" since my first stem-cell transplant back in January/February, where I was blasted with high dose chemotherapy with the sole intention of obliterating my disease (with lots of collateral damage, of course) and I was given my own stem cells back to me to regenerate my nuked immune system.  This first transplant was critical because previous lines of treatment had failed to get me into remission, and I needed to be in remission in order to undergo my second, donor transplant (ultimately the procedure that will yeild the "cure").  What is huge about the newest scan is that it shows that in the 8 months since my first transplant, including the last 83 days with my new immune system, my disease has not resurfaced.  Without having to battle my cancer back into remission, which gets more and more difficult (and less successful each time), my team can focus on the other important aspects of my recovery, which will last for several more months even with the good results of the scan.

I asked my doctor what does this mean with regards to my current and continued care and recovery, and he said that remaining in remission is the goal, and at around two years, we can begin using the word "cure."  In the meantime, I am not yet "cured," and I still face the numerous restrictions that patients have post-transplant (although I was given the all-clear to order takeout and fresh vegetables again!  I am being entirely truthful when I say that I've missed having salad more than I miss drinking alcohol).

One of my first thoughts after getting off the phone with my doctor was god damn it, do I have to change the name of my blog?  Well, I'll be damned if I'm changing it after I just registered the domain.  Maybe I'll just switch the parantheses in the logo from the (RE) to the (IM).  But at the end of the day, this blog is not about the specifics of my illness.  If it's about anything, it's about challenge and opportunity. There is an uncertainty and skepticism that resides in the far corner of the mind, even in spite of excellent news, and that's what the title reflects.

Now for a run-down of the day's events.  I entered the stem-cell patient waiting room at 7:45am in the middle of a conversation between two men in their 60s/70s (well, technically, it was a conversation between one sick man and another sick man's wife).  They must've started talking about their diagnoses.

"I was 67, never barely got sick."
"He was 72, we just thought he was getting old."
"I lost 60 pounds.  I used to hit the gym.  I worked my whole life, I'm retiring, I'm still big and strong, then this happens."

A small part of can't help but think, "Try 25."  But I still feel for these men and their stories, which are different from mine but no better.

Next was my CT scan in the Shapiro building in neighboring Brigham & Women's Hospital.  Since it'd been a while since my last scan and I didn't want to drag my mother all over hell's creation, I figured I would ask a Dana Farber volunteer how to get there.  I was hoping for simple directions but instead she eagerly started leading us down the Dana Farber hallway and across the connecting bridge to Brigham's. While she is leading us she is telling us she does this ten times a day and could do it in her sleep.  Well, she might have actually been asleep,  dropping us off in the completely wrong place and someone else had to point us in the opposition direction to the correct area at the end of the hall and around the corner.

So I sign in, they bring me into a small, cold waiting room so I could drink my "berry-flavored" CT scan drink to prepare for my scan.  My mom has spilled coffee on her white shirt and she is freezing after trying to clean it in the bathroom.  The scan itself takes five minutes so we have lunch before I check in to see my actual doctor.

The trick is to get to the stain before it dries
In the waiting room, a family consisting of an older couple and who I determined to be their son-in-law sat near us.  I couldn't pinpoint exactly where they seemed to be from, but they definitely had an Eastern European and/or Muslim (Turkish???) thing going on.  Fortunately since I've already worked a Bulldoze song into this post, this won't be the most ignorant part of today's entry.  Anyway, they notice me in my mask and gloves and they start asking if I was post-transplant.  The son-in-law (henceforth SIL) explained that his FIL is about to go through an autologous transplant (like my first transplant, auto = one's own cells) so they asked me a couple questions.  The old man asked me what my diagnosis was.  I told him Stage 4 Hodgkins Lymphoma.  His SIL points to him and says, "That's just what you have, Harry!"  I turn to the old man, "My name's Harry!"  (A month ago Heather and I were walking my yellow lab on Cape Cod and a young family came up to us to pet him, and the mother explained their yellow lab just passed away.  "His name was Harry."  "My name's Harry!"

His wife didn't seem to have as firm a grip on English, but she did make one contribution.  I was wearing an old t-shirt with a picture of Albert Einstein on it, and she points to it and says, "At least you have Charlie Chaplin on your side."  I laughed in case she was making some kind of joke, but a laugh is generally a good response to a comment that you have no idea what to make of.  I turn to her husband, and he says, "He was a gypsy!" very matter-of-factly, so I couldn't tell what their actual feelings on gypsies are.  Shortly after, my name is called and we say our goodbyes and I wish him good luck.

My shirt

Charlie Chaplin (he actually makes the shoe look good, that's some good comedy for you)
My doctor had a student with him (likely because I'm part of a clinical trial), some girl from Portugal.  At one point I showed him a picture of my new dog lying in his bed, which he thought was cute (duh).  I then show this girl, and she says, "Oh my god, he's scary."  What the fuck are you talking about?  What kind of dogs is she used to that a Boston Terrier curled up in a bed conjures fear?

Really terrifying

Well, it's about that time.  This post has ended pretty long, but I wanted to include all the events of the day..  I want to thank everyone who has shown me so much support lately.  It means a lot.  I'll close this post with a picture I took on Prospect Hill in Somerville.  Take it easy everyone.