Playing the Odds

Look at how SHINY it is...

 I don't like gambling. I haven't done much of it, but the times when I have felt... icky. There's a numbness and desperation and weird, unnatural excitement to it all, at least for me. Usually, it's in Vegas, and there are whistles and bells and beeps and cha-ching noises happening left and right. This, of course, is to up the level of Pavlovian slobbering.

Oh, something else. I suck at it.

I know. "The house always wins." I get that. But I am SPECTACULARLY bad at gambling.

For some reason, however, the Universe keeps putting me in situations where I have to essentially DO THE THING. Gamble. Over and over again. Roll the dice. Spin the wheel. Pull the lever.

Wait. That's not right.

So, we've been going around, doing things like second opinions. Just in case those opinions differed.

And they didn't.

But one thing that I did discover was why there wasn't much variance in the options presented. Basically, it's because there is NO DATA ON GRAY ZONE LYMPHOMA.

That's right, folks. Nobody knows what the hell to do with my cancer. I feel like we've talked about this before, once or twice. So the cool new options they're developing for cancer could maybe help me out, but nobody knows and nobody's really even thinking about knowing.

Anyhoo, pretty much the only data out there on gray zone lymphoma is that my next treatment should be an allogeneic bone marrow transplant. And the odds are about 45-50% that I could get a complete cure that way.

That's basically like betting black or red at the roulette table. Not quite even odds.

With everything else? We just don't know.

That's more like taking all your chips and shoving them onto one number.

So as much as I want to avoid this second, harder transplant, is it even responsible for me to try these other options? That's the first question. But then there's another question that's even more difficult to answer. If I decided I wanted to do these things, how would I even go about it?

I'm willing to be a guinea pig. Prick me, poke me, fill me with deadly chemicals. It's not like I haven't been doing that for a year and a half already. Hook me up to electrodes, shock my genitals, I DON'T CARE. I will do it if it means I have a shot at beating this cancer without going through another transplant.

Y'all, I would give up CHOCOLATE. That's how serious I am.

I am Obama-making-this-face level of serious.

But my purpose here is to get rid of this thing. To not die. To stick around for my wife and kids and eventual grandkids. And with that end goal being as clear as it is, how can I responsibly hit the pause button on something that could cure me, just because it would suck more than anything else I've ever experienced physically in my life and possibly well beyond that?

I'm not afraid of the procedure. I've done it before. I can do it again.

But if I go through it again, which would mean taking anti-rejection drugs for the rest of my life, and I still don't get rid of this thing?

Could I handle that?

I feel like I've dealt with some pretty significant things during this last year and a half. And, for the most part, I've kept an optimistic, hopeful outlook on everything. I still have that. I believe I'll beat this. Fully.

But could I come back from a failed second transplant with hope?

It's a tough one, y'all. I have big, BIG feelings, and right now they're all pointing in different directions, all skiwampus like.

So, last night I was in the hospital. DON'T FREAK OUT. I AM OKAY.

I made the mistake of posting a picture of myself on Insta, and like a billion people texted my wife to see what was going on. She was NOT happy with me. I do not want a repeat here.

I spiked a pretty high fever (up to 104.1 at one point), so I needed to have a bunch of tests done. When I went in to my oncologist's office to get said tests done, they wouldn't let me stay because I had a fever. Even though they told me to come in for the tests because I had a fever. They almost had to call security on me. I swore a blue streak at one of the PAs, and it looked like for a moment they were finding back-up.

The reason I was so pissed off was because I hadn't taken any pain medication for my back (did we talk about my back? I've been having excruciating back pain for about three weeks now. Now you know if you didn't before) so I could drive myself to the office. Which they had told me to do. Multiple times. Even though I told them the symptoms I was having.

I pretty much just lost my $#!+.

Anyhoo, they told me to go to the ER, which catches us back up with what I was saying.

I was back in the hospital, my least favorite place in the world, except maybe for West Texas in the middle of the summer. It was looking like I was going to have to spend the night. They weren't allowing visitors, so I was completely alone.

But I was still grateful to be alive. To be experiencing that moment, as flawed and painful as it was. And I got tested for COVID, y'all. If you've done it, you know what I'm talking about.

Turned out, I got to go home. So I slept in my own bed, fitfully, my wife taking care of me all night long, brushing aside my "sorrys" with "shut up, I love you" on her lips. Every time. And my fever broke and my sweat drenched the bed and she kept telling me she loved me.

And I started to feel better. And I was grateful for that moment, and the relief it gave me, even if it was only temporary.

That's what I want. I want to live. I want to have those moments, the good, the bad, the ugly, the strange. I'm not picky when it comes to experiences.

Now all I have to do is figure out whether to bet on red or to put my chips on a number.

No biggie.

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Next up... we're going to have a hoe-down!