Hello, dear readers,
We have been lucky to have the summer fun I wished for. We recently returned from a lovely ten days in North Carolina, with a stopover in Atlanta. Madeleine turned 17 on the trip and patiently endured Mom and Dad's trip down memory lane at Duke, and we spent the next day doing the full-blown admissions tour, etc.
The kids had memorable grandparent time in Highlands, including two tenderfoot fishing expeditions with Hank's godfather. The 70- and 80-degree weather was fabuloso: it's been 100+ at home since late June and we've all been hiding inside or in pools.
But now it's back to reality. We had a tense trip to Houston last week. It wasn't great news, but most of all, it wasn't horrible news. (Thank you, angels.) The cancer is still "only" (hah, hah) in my bones, and not in my liver or lungs. If I can keep it to the bones, I can hope to be called "stable" at some point and maybe even for a long chunk of time. (Please, angels, I promise to be good.)
But this managable news comes at a price: I must abandon the "easy" hormone treatments and go on chemotherapy this week. It will be weekly Taxol, one of the most tolerable chemos, and possibly also Avastin, which blocks angiogenesis, the process by which those evil suckers develop and maintain their blood supply.
So this means no hair, some fatigue, and a whole day each week at Chez Chemo. I have plenty of friends there, so it won't be lonely. My intrepid caregiver will likely be at my side much of the time. Perhaps that Memphis boy will sing me the R&B tune that goes, "Put on your high-heeled sneakers/And your wig-hat on your head."
This weekend we're having a last summer blowout at SeaWorld. Caroline will turn 14 and hopefully Shamu will use his water-displacement talents to wash away our cares.
Love to all,