Limbo



Zelda: It’s been awhile. Should we bring folks up to date?

Zach: Sure.


Zelda: How’re you doing?


Zach: Peachy. 


Zelda: Right.


Zach: What do you want me to say?


Zelda: You’ve basically been untreated for the past 8 months. No hormone therapy, no radiation, no chemo. Say how you’re feeling.


Zach: Frustrated. Bored. Weak.


Zelda: What’s frustrating?


Zach: Being in limbo. Nothing's happening. Nobody knows what they’re doing.


Zelda: For example?


Zach: It all stalled this summer—except my PSA. That jumped from 300 to 5000, and nobody gives a shit. They said the “new lesions” were different. Ordered more PET scans. And that CT-guided biopsy bullshit.


Zelda: Remind me: Why did they want the biopsy bullshit?


Zach: To get more info on the new nasties. See if it makes sense to try something else—radiation, chemo, maybe another hormone pill.


Zelda: Right. 'Cause the new tumors are different. 


Zach: Yeah, Pluvicto didn’t touch ‘em.


Zelda: So you got the biopsy.


Zach: And we waited for the genetic results to come back. At the last appointment, the only results they had was “positive for prostate cancer” (duh). And no small-cell mutations detected—guess that's good. Small cell's even more aggressive and harder to treat. But there was no genetic info. Turns out they forgot to send the biopsy for testing. So now we’re waiting again. 3 months to get genetic tests done. Frustrating.


Zelda: If I’d known they dropped the ball, I would’ve raised hell.


Zach: Point is, you shouldn’t have to. They’re a care team, but they don’t care.


Zelda: You also said you feel weak. 


Zach: Tried to lift a gallon of milk out of the fridge and it ‘bout killed me. Too much couch time. Lost all my muscle.


Zelda: Quality time with Judy Justice has its cost. You’ve lost more weight, too.


Zach: Yeah, I was happy at 175. That was a few months ago.


Zelda: And now?


Zach: 152.


Zelda: That’s my weight class!


Zach: Down 81 lbs. since the diagnosis.


Zelda: My husband used to be this big and strong guy—a foodie. Now he’s a skinny guy who’s low on potassium and drinks high-protein shakes for meals—and sometimes falls in the bathroom. 


Zach: Knew you’d bring that up. Yeah, I took a couple spills last month. Don’t make it a big deal.


Zelda: It’s a big deal to me. You went a few months without a fall. Then you had 2 in a weekend. Do you feel like you’ve recovered?


Zach: I’m done with the Band-Aids, if that's what you mean. And cut way back on pain meds.


Zelda: Do you feel more steady on your feet now?


Zach: Not even a little bit. Feels like I could take a tumble any time. One minute I’m fine, the next I’m on the floor.


Zelda: Because of the neuropathy?


Zach: Probably. Feet are still numb as hell.


Zelda: And your hands too, right?


Zach: For the last year now. Since chemo. But it changes every day. I never know how I’m gonna feel from one day to the next. Sometimes it’s nausea. Sometimes it’s pain. The other day, my ankle was killing me. Couldn’t put any weight on it at all. Today it’s fine. 


Zelda: I know you’re doing everything you can—red light therapy, alpha lipoic acid, vitamin B, compression, massage—all the things. 


Zach: And I appreciate everything you're doing to help…except for nagging about food. You can stop that shit any time.


Zelda: Meanwhile, we just keep on…


Zach: …keepin’ on.


Zelda: You know I love you, right?


Zach: Love you more.


Zelda: Loved you first.


Zach: Love you best.

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