Battling cancer can be an interesting journey. You think you have it all figured out and you get thrown into a new phase and you have to figure it out all over again. I guess you can say that I have had three phases so far: 1) first rounds of chemo after cancer detection, 2) transplant and 3) post transplant recovery and aftermath.
Phase one was scary because I didn’t know if I was going to live or die. If you haven’t gone through this before, it is very easy to think the worst because you really don’t know enough. I somehow got through that phase and then it was on to the transplant. Unlike the first stage, I felt very confident that the transplant was going to work.
I knew it wouldn’t be a day at the beach, but I felt pretty good about my survival chances. I wasn’t 100% sure that I would walk out of the hospital so we had family pictures taken so the boys would remember their dear ole dad. Although I thought they were decent photos, they don’t see the light of day in the Churan household because I guess I was the only one that liked them. Luckily, I did make it out of the hospital so we can have another set done sometime.
Phase three, the post transplant stage, was not without its time of worry. After only 5 months, my numbers started spiking and I thought all was lost. That settled down and for two years, I lived a life of someone without cancer save the monthly blood letting at the Mayo. Other than my now ever present high blood pressure medications, I was just like everybody else.
I have now entered phase four, the stage where everyone realizes that the transplant has run its course and it is time for another intervention. When I first came to the realization that my body just couldn’t handle the cancer on its own, I was disappointed. The next two months were tough as I hoped for a miracle that just wasn’t going to come. There was no doubt; I needed to go back on chemo.
It wasn’t the fact that I was going to start up chemo again, it was the fact that it is likely that I will never get off of it, more than anything else. Aside from the transplant, there is nothing that can be done to make you chemo free. It took me another two months to get over that setback, but now I am fully ready to start that next leg of the journey.
This morning, I took my first dose of Revlimid. It is a perfectly innocent capsule that doesn’t look a whole lot different than any other over the counter capsule. It isn’t until you read the fine print that you realize that this isn’t your mother’s multiple vitamin.
Before I was even allowed to get a prescription for Revlimid I have to sign my life away. On four separate forms I had to state that I would not have unprotected sex with a woman of child bearing age. Of course, those were easy to sign as Julia looked over my shoulder. But it went even further than that. The fact that I had a vasectomy wasn’t good enough; I had to agree to have a second protection in place. Needless to say, they don’t want you fathering any children while using Revlimid.
The same holds true for women taking Revlimid. There is enough proof in laboratory animals that there is a good chance that any offspring could have some severe birth defects. In fact, I am the only one in the house that is allowed to handle the stuff. As you can imagine, swallowing that first capsule made me twitch a bit. So much for my life as a sperm donor (Can’t do that either, not that I ever would have. Who would have picked me anyway?)
Of course, it is going to keep me alive for a bit, so I’m not complaining. As a matter of cost, if it wasn’t for my insurance company I would be twitching all over. I don’t know the actual cost to the insurance company, but I have heard costs ranging anywhere from $5,000 to $10,000 per month. At this point, I don’t care what it costs (I can say that because I am only responsible for a $20 copay per month) because Dr.Mikhael believes I might be able to get another three years out of this drug. If you would have told me 2 ½ years ago that I would be worrying about what I would be taking in five years, I would have kissed you. Every minute matters now, another three years are a lifetime.
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