Psycho Parent Syndrome or Just Having Fun?

Today is Katelyn's first ice skating lesson. Two years old seems awfully young for skating lessons, and there's only a 50% chance she'll put on the skates. That does make us seem over-intense. I suppose if she's competing in the sport at age 15, and we admit to other parents (her competition) that we started her at two, we will be certified as psycho. If we told them her first lessons were held at the training ground for a past Olympic gold medalist, we'd completely ruin our chances of a reputation as fun-loving and easy-going.

But her competing at age 15 is unlikely to happen (especially if she refuses to get on the ice!). Neither Ryan nor I are the spontaneous type. Or rather, we didn't use to be. For us, this is spontaneous. A few weeks ago, Ryan had turned on the television to distract Katelyn from her nap-hangover. She was enraptured by an ice dancing competition. We decided to "do something crazy" and give it a try. The "home of the Olympic champion" rink happens to be the nearest to our house.

So while I do feel a little worried that this activity might be a symptom of Psycho Parent Syndrome, I am really excited to watch Katelyn and Ryan on the ice today, if they make it that far. We'll have fun today. And if she's not, we'll leave. That doesn't sound psycho at all.

Come Monday, It'll Be Alright

Hopefully those Jimmy Buffett lyrics will prove to be true. I should get the results of my remission test tomorrow. Also tomorrow, I begin taking the ATRA for fifteen days. If it has the same effect as the last two times, the headache will begin around four o'clock Monday afternoon.

We've been praying for a clean remission test result, and my doctor says it's highly likely that will be the case. If it is clean, however, I won't be quite as joyous as I've been post the last two PCR tests.

My grandma started a new treatment course this past week. So far, she hasn't had much in the way of side effects, which is excellent. I shouldn't worry about her because she is one tough cookie, and the most positive person I know. But I can't help it. I love her so much.

Also, one of the friends I've made this year, through our shared circumstances (young 30s, leukemia (She has AML M-1. I have AML M-3.), is sick again. She found out the beginning of last week that she has relapsed. She has young children, and is back for a long stay in the hospital. Knowing what it's like to be away from your family, I feel so bad for her. Though like my grandma, she is a fighter, and will be just fine.

People ask me how I've been so brave this year. I'm not a brave person. My answer is that I don't have a choice. Neither does my Grandma, nor my friend. You act brave because that's what you do for those you love, and those who love you.

Last Dose - Hooray!

Dad sitting next to me as I finish my last dose of Daunorubicin.

Overall, today's session went better. On the way home, I didn't need the bucket that Dad had stored in the back seat of the car, just in case... Both my arms are really sore from the strong chemical being pushed through them--the left from the IV on Monday and the right from yesterday and today. The chemo didn't leak into my flesh, but it seemed that my veins were too small to flush it throughout my circular system quickly, so they spasmed. When I received the Idarubicin in the hospital in the spring, it was injected through a PICC, so I didn't have this issue. Over the next few days, applying hot compresses to my arms should help.

Moving Past Day 1, onto Day 2 of Daunorubicin

I wish I could run, in a drop-dead sprint, through these next few weeks. Be done with this, having felt nothing more than sore calves and skinned knees from that one time I bit it when I didn't see the crack in the pavement.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to run in years, and since any lingering tumor cells are hiding within my bone marrow, they would be traveling just as fast.

Yesterday's infusion didn't go as well as the three in September. The catheter was in the vein in my left arm correctly, so the Daunorubicin was flowing into my bloodstream, not into my flesh where it would cause damage. But the veins in my left arm had their own adverse reaction to it. The top and underside of my forearm were experiencing a burning sensation. So was my left shoulder. The nurse slowed down the injection and applied hot compresses, but I didn't begin to feel better until she'd finished the two chemo vials and had given me pain medicine.

"Have a Magical Day"

Last Thursday, we took Katelyn to the Magic Kingdom in Disney World. It was a fantastic day, followed by four more great Florida days. Exactly the vacation we needed before the chemotherapy next week. My parents have been helping us so much this year, and Ryan has been an amazing husband and father. It was so nice to have fun with them away from the doctor consultations, infusion appointments, and household chores with which they'd been involved. I am so lucky to have so much support.

When we first entered the Magic Kingdom, a "cast member" from Cheyenne, Wyoming, who scanned my ticket, said, "Have a magical day." Despite my great mood, the phrase made me pause. When is the last time someone told you to have a magical day? It's not that I didn't want us to have such an experience. On the contrary, I was already grinning at Katelyn's excitement over spotting Cinderella's castle. It's just that it's an odd greeting. Try it out on a colleague or a store clerk, and you'll agree with me.

As silly as the expression sounds, we did have a magical day. Rather, a magical weekend.