Always get a second opinion

Our first oncologist had all the appearance and bearing of competence. Her degrees and honors were clearly visible on the wall. She had published in medical journals. She answered our questions with confidence. She took samples of Jenni's blood and scheduled her for five rounds of treatment with fludarabine, each round consisting of five daily IV injections.

We prepared ourselves as well as we could. Jenni wondered about losing her hair, but the oncologist told her that patients did not always suffer that side effect with fludarabine. That comforted Jenni. Pain, fatigue, and nausea are all conquerable, but losing the hair is like losing the self. We recognize ourselves every day in the mirror. The prospect of suddenly seeing a radically different likeness is unnerving.

I accompanied Jenni on a Monday to her first treatment in the oncologist's office. Patients sat or reclined in easy chairs with IV poles next to them holding bags that dripped poison into their veins. The attending nurse was brash and funny, putting everyone at ease with stories and jokes and offering drinks and cookies. After about 90 minutes it was over and we went home.

Jenni didn't feel too well. She returned each weekday and came home feeling worse. By Friday she just wanted to stay in bed. I thought this chemotherapy thing was nothing to sneeze at, and I expected that she would improve on the weekend. It didn't happen. On Monday, I helped her into my car and we returned to the oncologist's office with some very serious concerns. The oncologist looked at her and told me to take her to the hospital a block or two away. I did, but the doctor didn't help with admission. We went through the red tape and were told to wait. Jenni couldn't sit; she needed to lie down, so I found a gurney and put her on it. I put a blanket on her too since she was feeling cold. Jenni doesn't remember any of this, by the way.

After a long wait, someone came and rolled Jenni to the emergency room. She was in bad shape. Her platelet count had dropped to zero. In fact, all her blood counts were out of whack. Because I had been a regular blood donor, giving platelets to the Red Cross once a month for eight years, I called my friends at the Red Cross. "Can I make a withdrawal?" I asked. I knew it was a silly question. It doesn't work that way, but I thought they could give me some tips on how we could obtain some platelets -- fast.

Our doctor showed up looking drawn and worried. Hey! At last! Some sign of caring. She told me Jenni had suffered a rare, unpredictable side effect of chemotherapy. After making some phone calls, she decided Jenni needed to be moved to the regional hospital, where more resources could be tapped to improve her condition. At this point, I realized Jenni could die -- not in seven to 10 years, but immediately.

While the ambulance carried her to the hospital, I took the opportunity to update Jenni's parents on our situation. As is typical of my wife, she hadn't told them that she was sick. Didn't want them to feel the sorrow. There was no avoiding it, however, and I told them everything, including Jenni's claim that this was the best kind of leukemia to have. We had a good cry together, and I headed for the hospital.