No News is Good News?



Today has been a bit of a bummer day.  Our day began, as usual, with the resident doctor waking us up to examine Willie.  She reported that his lab results looked good.  His white count is holding at 0.3, Red cells are at 7.6 which is good because they haven't fallen since his last infusion two days ago.  The platelet count was still pending so we don't know how he did after receiving platelets yesterday.  She left, then returned with the whole team about an hour later.  Today there was a silly amount of people.  They kept filing into the room like clowns squeezing into a clown car.  When they were are inside and the door was squeezed shut I took a head count: 8 people.
Well, not just 8 people, 8 Stanford doctors clad in white lab coats with their name and the hospital embroidered on the left breast pocket.  It's funny how much clout a lab coat can give a person.  I've seen some of our doctors wandering around on their lunch breaks without their lab coats on and I would never have guessed they were anything but a visiting family member.  The second the lab coat is on, however; they become the authority on health. 
We put our faith in these white lab coats.
Willie was sitting up in bed and the attending physician came around to stand in front of him. The rest of the crew hovered behind the bed like a silent audience awaiting the opening scene of a dramatic play. 
"We got the results back on the bone marrow." he said "There were some cells there, but we aren't sure if they are blasts or not yet.  What we usually do in this scenario is wait a week then take another biopsy to see what is going on."
My heart was beating so loudly I was sure the whole room could hear it.  This wasn't good news or bad news.  It was just simply, news, but the energy in the room gave me flashbacks of the night we received the diagnosis three short weeks ago.  I looked into the faces of the silent audience of doctors behind the bed.  So they is why they were here.  They were all receiving training on how to inform people that their lives will continue to be interrupted by a cancer they so desperately hoped would be gone.
"So we continue to stay here and wait." I said. 
It wasn't a question, it was more of a sad statement said in defeat.  The doctor nodded his head in affirmation.
"We will continue to watch Willie and keep an eye on his counts.  If his counts start to come up then we will know that the cells we saw in the marrow are not cancer cells and we can wait a bit longer to do the biopsy."
This was good news.  This is hope.  He went on to explain that the bone marrow biopsy taken after a round of chemo is supposed to show no cells at all, good or bad.  Will's contained a few small cells the could be leukemia cells that will need another round of chemo to kill.  He was quick to add that they may also be good cells, or cancer cells that the chemo just hasn't got around to killing yet.  We prefer to focus on the latter of the two.  By waiting a week to test again we will have a more conclusive idea of what is going on.
What a bummer!
He delivered the news quickly then shooed the herd of doctors out the door.  We sat in silence for a moment as we absorbed the news.
"I don't know how to feel." I finally said "It's not like it's bad news, but it's not good news either.  I just hate being stuck in this limbo!"
Willie was silent.  He reached up and scratched his head and I watched as a dozen strands of hair fell to the ground.  He has been losing his hair for the past few days at a steady rate.  It's no secret that people lose their hair after going through chemo, but I just assumed it happened all at once.  Like one day every strand of hair jumped ship and fell out at the same time like removing a wig.  It is not that pretty.
Will started losing his hair on Tuesday afternoon.  I had gone for a walk while he was taking a nap.  When I returned he was sitting on the side of the bed, staring at the ground as if in shame.
"My hair is falling out." he said, then motioned to the pillow.
I was shocked to see the amount of hair on the pillow.  I would have expected to see a large bald spot somewhere on his head from the amount on the pillow, but to me, his hair still looked normal.  From that moment on he has been trailing strands of hair everywhere he goes. 
Finally Willie spoke
"I just want to go home."he said into the morning air.
"I know," I said, "I know."
I didn't have a single positive thing to combat this with.  Up until this morning I have been saying things like "we'll be home sooner than we know" or "just a few more days until we get the results and you'll be all clear so we can go home!"
The neutral news we had just received took the wind out of our sails.  We know we will at least be here another 7 days until we get the next results and who knows how long we will need to stay depending on what the results say. 
It just felt like we were receiving a diagnosis all over again.  It suddenly became clear to me that this is how our lives are going to be from now on.  There will never be a time when we are not thinking about what the next step is going to be with his leukemia.  We will always be in this limbo of wondering whether the cancer is gone or if it is wreaking havoc on his cells.
This is our life now.
But we are ok with that.  We can handle it.  We have each other and an amazing support system of family, friends and the community.  We are stronger than leukemia!  We would just FEEL a lot stronger outside of these hospital walls.  We've been stuck in this small room for 3 weeks now and we are more than ready to get out of here!
Will wanted to take a shower, but didn't want to burden the drain with all of his hair.  Now that's a good plumber if he's thinking about the drain when his hair is falling out!  He wanted me to shave his head so I went out and bought cheap pair of clippers.
He leaned over the trash and I turned on the black clippers.  They buzzed in my hand as I began removing the first sections of hair just above his ear. 
"It's just hair," I told myself as each strand fell into the trash, pulling at my heart strings as it went. "It will grow back."
My eyes grew blurry as I fought back tears. 
It's not just hair, it's everything it represents. 
It is admitting he has cancer.
It is proof that our fight is just beginning.
It is accepting that things will never be the same.
It is the end of an era.
The hum from the buzzers began to numb my emotions and I gathered the courage to look at Will's reflection in the mirror.  He was calm, focused, staring steadily at my hands as they removed long sections of hair.  There was a drive in his eyes that I have never seen before.  An intensity that would scare the crap out of me if I was cancer!
My heart was lifted as I was reminded, once again, that we were going to be ok.  We still have hope and we will move forward with renewed faith as fresh and new as the soft skin that appears under his vanishing hair.
I stepped back from his shaved head and took in my handiwork.  He looks completely different, but his deep blue eyes will always be the same.  They are my home.  I will always feel safe with those eyes looking back at me.
"I don't know how I got myself such a good looking husband!" I said, and gave him hug. 
And I meant it.  He may have a buzzed head with scattered patches of pink skin, but to me he is gorgeous.