Category: Carrie-Anne (Page 2 of 13)

Our hearts are full of gratitude for the thoughtful and considerate team of nurses and doctors at Texas Oncology / Allison Cancer Center here in Midland. These kind and warm professionals walked with us every step of the way during Carrie-Anne’s 16 chemotherapy treatments and took great care of us throughout the five months. Kirsten welcomed us to the infusion room on that very first Friday back in February and guided us through our first few treatments,  Lindsey took care of us on our very last day, Paula and Julie were calm and compassionate caregivers in the middle months, and Gian (not pictured; slacker) was the consistent model of efficiency, source of humor, and conversation partner.

After spending four hours every Friday with these great people for five months, we feel like we know them and we love them. We know the TV shows Julie’s kids watch and we know that Julie knows all the songs. We know about Lindsey’s husband’s job and their family back in Austin. We know about Gian’s upbringing in the Philippines, his faith journey, and his “maid.” We talked together about Aerosmith and church, hockey and the economy, Friends and M*A*S*H, the Cowboys and potty-training. We compared Lindsey’s precision infusion techniques to Gian’s more, shall we say, decisive(?) methods. And we prayed together.

There is much to be thankful for. Carrie-Anne is “cancer-free,” her side effects throughout the treatments were minimal and short-lived, she has hung on to about 80% of her hair, and her infusion port is coming out this Friday afternoon. We are thankful for our God’s incredible mercy to us over this phase of our cancer journey. We are grateful to our church family at GCR — for their prayers, cards, texts, calls, meals, visits, and love. And we thank the Lord for our friends at the Allison Cancer Center. They are doing really great work. And they do it in a way that reflects the glory of our God.

Peace,

Allan

The final chemotherapy infusion is today, the last round of 16 treatments that began February 3 and have dominated our lives for the past five months. Last night was the final time to pack up the Cold Caps in their plastic sleeves and place them in the freezer for overnight freezing. This morning is the final time to wheel the ice chest into Market Street at 6am to purchase 50-pounds of dry ice — thank you, Rosa, for your smiling face and consistent kindness! For the last time, I have packed the Cold Caps into the ice chest and the frozen gloves, slippers, and eye masks into the auxiliary ice bag. I have counted the Velcro straps, checked the batteries in the infrared thermometer, and packed the ear muffs and electric blanket.

Carrie-Anne is making her morning shake and we’re getting read to put the numbing cream on her port for the last time. We’ll sit down here in a minute and read from Isaiah and the Psalms and then pray thanksgiving to our God. Then we’ll head to T&T to get donuts for the infusion crew, drive down Garfield and navigate whatever construction there is at the Golf Course Road intersection, and pull into the Allison Cancer Center for the last two shots of the Red Devil.

If you had told us in February exactly how these five months would go, we would have taken it in a blink. By God’s grace, Carrie-Anne’s side effects have been minimal and short-lived. The doctors and nurses here and in Houston have been phenomenal in their care and concern. And our support team of Christian friends and family has been a direct blessing from our Lord.

And Carrie-Anne is a rock star. Seriously. She is inspiring everybody who knows her by her determination, her faith, and her cheerful spirit.

We thank God for his faithfulness to us. He has shown us amazing grace and mercy during this trial. And our hearts are overflowing with gratitude and praise.

Peace,

Allan

Dr. Manny walked into the examination room at the Allison Cancer Center Friday morning and victoriously declared, “The Penultimate Procedure!”

Yes, sir, the next-to-last “Red Devil” infusion intended to completely annihilate any remaining cancer cells hanging around my wife Carrie-Anne. Friday’s treatment was number fifteen out of sixteen total infusions, the third of what I’m calling the Final Four. These last four are the ones doctors and patients in the breast cancer community call the “Red Devil” because of its unmistakable color and its nasty side effects. For Carrie-Anne, these side effects have been minimal and short-lived, relatively speaking. But this past weekend was a little more difficult than the previous two. She was light-headed and woozy all afternoon and evening on Friday. She spent most of Saturday and Sunday completely wiped out physically and wrapped from her waist to her ankles in heating pads and electric blankets to soothe her sore and aching bones. But no mouth or throat sores. And no nausea (the only nausea C-A experiences is driving in the car with me to the oncology hospital while I’m eating a cheese and jalapeno sausage kolache). She is experiencing a loss of appetite for the first time and some minor changes in the way things taste, but none of the worst things we were assured would happen with these final four treatments.

Praise God. He has been very merciful to us, gracious beyond what we deserve. And we are so grateful.

Carrie-Anne has begun losing some of her hair in the past couple of weeks, which makes everything a little more emotional. But she started out with so much, I think she could lose half of it before anyone would notice. We’re still doing the frozen caps on chemo days, still keeping the temperature at 35-degrees below zero and changing them in and out of the dry ice and onto her head every 25-minutes for eight hours. And you can tell from the picture we’ve added another strap, the yellow one, to lock that thing onto her head even a little tighter. And she holds it against her scalp with her hands now, doing everything she can to save that hair. By God’s grace, it’s working better than anyone at the Allison Cancer Center has ever seen. In fact, during our past two treatments, two different doctors have come to the infusion room just to marvel at C-A’s hair and overall health. We keep being told by all the experts she does not look like someone who’s gone through five months of chemo. And, again, we give all the glory to our God.

One more infusion remaining. June 16. Less than two weeks away from completing the treatments and getting most of our lives back. At that time, I’ll write much more about the woman under that awkward cap. She is remarkable in more ways than I realized. And I’ve known her and loved her for 34 years.

Peace,

Allan