When I'm 64

Back in 2013, I took advantage of my 64th birthday to compose a blog about where I was in life, using the lyrics of the Beatles' classic "When I'm 64" as prompts. It was full of whimsy and fun. 

Well, here I am 30 months later and I'll be darned if I don't have an occasion to dust off that title and use it again...

As you know if you've been following this blog and my cancer saga, I have my blood tested every week. It's part of my chemotherapy regimen, helping my oncology team track my progress in battling multiple myeloma. In particular, I was on the edge of renal failure when the cancer was discovered at the tail end of January, and my #1 treatment priority has been reversing the kidney damage to avoid dialysis or a kidney transplant.

In my instance, the doctors are relying on a particular marker called immunoglobulin light chains. When the cancer was uncovered my light chain number was something in the vicinity of 1800 and they wanted it under 100. Gulp.

Fortunately, my body responded pretty well to the chemotherapy and we were able to drive the light chain number down to 66 after about six weeks of treatment. That said, I had a hiccup at the end of March, when my light chain number climbed back to 239—which development had my oncologist's immediate attention. 

In fact, this was considered a serious enough slippage that my doctor was ready to switch protocols, calling out heavier duty chemo guns in order to drive the light chains back down. Ugh. Thus, just 10 days ago I went into the hospital for my regular Monday morning blood draw, prepared to be admitted to the hospital for five days of amped up chemo. At the last moment, however, my doctor rescinded that order because my light chain numbers had dropped back to 111. Whew. Based on that reversal, he wanted to give the ongoing (less heavy duty) chemo protocol more time to get the job done. Maybe there was a delayed reaction and he knew it would be easier on my body if we could contain the cancer (and the light chains) using less poison rather than more.

Naturally, this reprieve was fine by me. It bought me a week of steady-as-she-goes, which Susan and I enjoyed thoroughly. Of course, there is a new blood draw every Monday, so all eyes were on the light chains ha emerged from the blood sample taken April 11, to see if the wind was still blowing in the same direction. Imagine how big my smile was when the nurse called Tuesday afternoon and reported that the light chain were now down to 64.

Not only was that the best news I could imagine getting, but it magically provided a perfect entrée to today's blog. Sometimes everything lines up just the way you'd like.

Does this mean there will be no more glitches en route to my getting stronger in preparation for the stem-cell transplant procedure (probably in July)? Alas, no. Cancer doesn't come with guarantees. There may be more potholes ahead on the road to recovery and I don't have a map that reveals their location. Yet it's good news nonetheless and has understandably leavened the mood for Ceilee and Annie's visit this week. 

I now have a green light to attempt some judicious reemergence as a process consultant prior to the stem-cell transplant, and I am working with Alice Alexander and the Coho Association of the US to have my debut be May 19 in Salt Lake City, when I conduct a half-day pre-conference workshop on how to facilitate conversations about aging in community. The main event, Aging Better Together, will be May 20-21 and there are still openings to join us if this topic grabs you and there's room on your dance card.

Maybe I'll see you there.