Dog Eat Dog.

2/13/18

Tonight I start a new post. Once again, I find myself woefully behind and not doing my job, or at least one of my jobs. Coach BB would not be happy with me. But I’m going to start in the present tense, and work backwards. Sound ok? If not, I understand if you want to get your news gathering somewhere more reliable. Like FOX. Oops, did I say that? Damn, I’ve been so good at trying to be unpolitical in my posts. 

Right now, real time (reel time?) we are watching the Westminster Dog Show - a tradition in our house. They just described the color of one the retrievers as “liver”. Really? Hannibal Lecter-like liver? I’m sorry, maybe it’s an acceptable and technical “doggie show” term, but me thinks they could do better. Kidney? Intestine? Toenail? The possibilities abound. Regardless, it’s nice to be hanging and having the brood watching with us, in this case of course it’s just us and the pups and the cats.

I’m sure you’ve all been wondering what’s been going. I’m going to go and put on my happy-face mask and will be right back. Hmm, all I could find is my Scream mask so I guess that will have to suffice, and frankly it fits pretty well these days. It honestly has been a couple of very difficult weeks in the Grant house. About two weeks ago, Abby had her third infusion of her trial drug Keytruda, and before the infusion we met with the doc running the trial to go over the results of the CT scan she had had a few days before. the results weren’t good, another sucker punch to the face. The cancerous spot in her lung had doubled (1/2" to an inch, which I suppose in porn vernacular would be no big woop I guess, but in the cancer world it stinks). And the two suspect lymph nodes also were larger. Not what the doc or us had hoped for. As we were processing this, the doc attempted to pull us up out of our Pit of Thy Own Sorrow (POTUS)-oops there I go again. He explained, and reminded us, that this was a distinct possibility, that sometimes patients take much longer to react positively to Keytruda, sometimes 3-6 months. And sometimes it can cause tumors to inflame and/or grow before they actually respond and shrink. That actually was lesson “A” when we signed up for this- one of the possible scenarios that could happen; you just hoped it wasn’t the case. So the plan now is Abby gets one more dose of Keytruda next week, then she’ll get new CT scans 3 weeks later. If they come back new and improved, then a big “WOO HOO”, break out the vuvuzelas, and the trial goes on as planned. If not, then Plan B, which does not include any morning after pill, but could include A) Staying on Keytruda and adding in radiation; B) Staying on Keytruda and adding in another drug; C) Dumping Keytruda and adding 2 or more other “cocktail” drugs, which I may have to have my local bartender add to my own cocktail glass for personal life support. 

If you’re confused at all, well welcome to our land of confusion and great unknown. If a dinosaur popped it’s head through our kitchen window, why I wouldn’t even blink an eye these days. I’d probably put a bowl of food for him outside on the back porch and join him with one of those aforementioned cocktails. We really are living in this scenario of absurdity, ridiculousness, bleakness, inspiration, horror, comedy, dramedy and whatever other category you can think up. It’s a double-feature creature-feature. But those used to be FUN.

Adding insult to injury, because that’s just how it’s been lately, this past Thursday we made a visit to the ENT doc/practice that originally did Abby’s emergency tracheoscopy. We haven’t seen him since last July, and this was a big visit, with Abby (and of course me myself and I) hoping that we’d get some good news, that maybe, just maybe, her trach tube could come out, which would mean her feeding could come out, and maybe maybe she might be able to eat/speak again, like the rest of us. Boy, do we take that for granted folks- so for me/us, savor that next meal and drink, slow down, chew chew as your parents used to say; sip, sup and taste as I say. Because this time, I’d say it was a sucker punch to gut. Bent-over, double-clutching, out-of-breath, on your knees. Eventually, you come to, slowly recover. It’s never fun, and the news was not either. Essentially, Abby’s vocal chords (you have two) are paralyzed, and paralyzed in the closed position. That means she can’t bring any air over her chords, so she would’t be able to talk, with or without the trach in place. And with the chords in “closed” position, (think about your middle and index fingers stuck together), she can’t pass food between them, so even if the trach tube was out, she couldn’t eat normally. The doc thinks the cancer has affected the nerve (which actually ends/is located close to your chest) that controls her vocal chords. It might be permanent; but we know of people who were told the same thing and guess what- they are aok now. So there. Up down up down up down. This past weekend was down. Like on the low low low down. Pull the rock over the cave as Abby likes to say.

I’ve found myself pretty shaken by all this as I know Abby has too. One of the (many) weird things in our lives now, is that normally, as a couple, you’d probably process some of this shit in the car ride home. But that’s pretty damn hard when you’re driving, and your wife can’t physically talk, and when she wants to communicate in the car it means her writing in her notebook and waving it near my face to read. I don’t think they cover this in Driver’s Ed, but maybe I’ll suggest it one day if I run into Mr. Bennet, our kids very patient teacher. While I’m this track, think about how hard it is to call or scold your dogs when you can’t talk. Frantically snapping your fingers or tapping your pen on a table just doesn’t have the same resonance. All-in-all, a crappy couple of weeks, and if Marvel wants to come up with a newcomer/movie villain, I’d call him/her Dr. D for Depression. Just make everyone so damn sad that they don’t give a flying f*ck what happens, just sink into the muck and mire and become listless. Good luck Superman cheering up the masses.

So over on Monty Python’s Lighter Side of Life, I continue to fight with the insurance company about ambulance bills going back to last July. While it seems entirely reasonable to pay $5,280 for a roundtrip to say, anywhere on the planet far far away, it seems ludicrous to be charged that for a roundtrip from Swampscott to MGH Boston and back. Total roundtrip miles: 28. But that’s what ambulance companies charge- Uber/Taxi ambulance anyone? But that’s what they get, to start with, insurance-wise, and we owe about 6-7 of these bills still, mostly because of insurance incompetence, paperwork redundancy, and sheer duncery. Moe, Larry and Curly are in charge, and nyuk nyuk nyuk two fingers are heading towards your eyes so you better think fast. Dewey Cheatem and Howe, at your service. They can meet me in the dark alley near my local ATM- I will bring my dogs, since they seem to want to play. 

I kind of figure when I write these long posts, that there’s a collective sigh, like “why can’t Craig write more often and make them shorter”? And I totally understand, especially in our world of Short-Attention-Span-Theatre - I’d probably feel the same way if I was on the outside reading in. Ugh- who wants to read all this, or has the energy. Unfortunately, I tried sky-writing, and well, by the time I got to the end of the first line, the whole thing was a blur. So that’s how I feel, it’a blur. Read until you want; start in the middle, or the end or the beginning; no matter, it’s all a blur to me, and welcome to my world. But the sky is blue up there, somewhere- just not always overhead.  And we as a family, Abby Trotter Grant, Ben Grant, and Aliza Grant, know it’s going to blue again in time. Much love and thanks to you all, who continue to help and support us, in so many ways. Please keep us in your thoughts, and we will do the same.