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[cancer|personal] My first day at NIH

Well, this has been a doozie. The flight yesterday was reasonable, and I set alarms to remind me to get up and walk every 30 minutes. This kept me from stiffening up. On arrival, after some delays on the tarmac, I was re-united with Lisa Costello. We went to dinner, then she brought me to the NIH hospital in Bethesda, MD.

I was late checking in, due to the travel schedule, and it took a while to get settled. Then around 10 pm they wanted a chest x-ray. Then an EKG. Then a urine sample. Then a blood sample or twelve. There was a small comedy of errors around trying to set a needle in my chest port. All in all, I did not go lights out until 12:30 am, which even by West Coast time is quite late for me. I slept very poorly, awakening around 5:20 to eat half a granola bar, as I’m NPO from 6 am on due to a forthcoming CT scan.

There’s been the usual cycle of doctors, nurses, dietitians and whatnot flowing through here this morning. The critical conversation was with Dr. Klemen. My white blood cell count is quite elevated, 15 on a scale where 10-11 is the top of the norms. My neutrophils are up as well. This is evidence of infection, which he believes is linked to my cough. Unfortunately, if we can’t get my white count down in the next day or so, I am at strong risk of washing out of the trial completely.

They simply cannot go in and flatline my immune system while I have an active infection. That could kill me. And the TIL cell growth is timed. I have to start that infusion within a pretty narrow window.

We’re hoping the white cell count is already dropping. They’ll be reviewing this morning’s CT for evidence of lung inflammation hopefully on the retreat. But as Dr. Klemen says, whatever I’m fighting, unless it’s already on its way out right now, we can’t suppress it fast enough to meet the deadlines.

So, yeah. Here we are, in March, on the journey that started last fall, and we may be looking at a wash out.

I cannot even begin to describe the bitterness I would feel at that disappointment.

We shall see what happens today and tomorrow.

[radiantlisa|travel] She’s leaving on a jet plane

Mother of the Child and I are off shortly to take Lisa Costello to the airport. She’s flying to Maryland today, to avoid a weekday flight next week, and because we had to plan her trip before we knew my confirmed dates. She’ll pick me up at the airport next Tuesday and take me straight to NIH. I shall miss her effervescent company this weekend, but I understand she’ll be visiting with old friends tomorrow, so perhaps constructive distractions will be in play.

Still, I wish we were flying together.

[cancer] Field notes from Cancerland, another West Coast edition

Headed to the doctor yesterday, twice

Yesterday I saw both my primary care physician and my palliative care physician. I wanted to bring them up to date on our NIH adventures, and also seek help for this stupid persistent cough, as well as discuss my general fatigue and lassitude. They were both productive consultations. Amusingly, each doctor had a very different approach to the cough. My palliative care doctor was most concerned with symptom reduction, prescribing Tessalon Perles. My primary was most concerned with addressing the root cause, and ordered a chest x-ray and an Albuterol inhaler. We eventually determined that these medications played well together, and I’ve gotten permission from my NIH doctors to proceed with treatment.

Back to NIH on 3/4

I have my new schedule schedule in hand. I’m flying back to NIH on Tuesday, 3/4. I’ll check into the hospital that evening. Wednesday 3/5 I have a CT scan mid-morning, and two MRIs that evening. One for my brain, the other for abdomen. MRIs are a pain the neck, though not especially painful in an objective sense. Having two in a row is going to be a real treat. Thursday 3/6 I am having my central line put in, a dual-lumen catheter that I believe will have a left subclavian placement. I suspect that will be rather painful in an objective sense. Friday 3/7 I commence seven straight days of kamikaze chemotherapy. (I’ve been asked by my doctors to gain some weight before I come back, which given that I am already medically obese is a strong commentary on what they expect to happen during treatment.) Friday 3/14, I commence the TIL cell infusions. At that point, the schedule becomes unpredictable due to possible variables in my response both to the infusion and afterwards as I recover from being profoundly immunocompromised.

So game on.

Will I be too sick to resume treatment?

Anent the above items, one of the things I worry about is whether I will be too sick to resume treatment. I have felt terrible this last week and half, in some sense worse than I felt even in the immediately post-operative period. My palliative care doctor thinks it’s not unreasonable for me to expect to get better in the next two weeks before I return to NIH, but at this point in my disease progression, nothing is certain. All I know is that there will have been an enormous amount of time, trouble and money spent on not much outcome if I wash out at this next step.

I’m pretty sure that’s an emotional fear on my part rather than a reasonable clinical expectation. Nonetheless, it’s real and powerful.

On the plus side, I feel better this morning than I have in the better part of two weeks. So maybe progress is being made.

Weird ideas about living through my own death

Even now, as I feel my body winding down and my mind wandering further and further away, I still marvel at being alive. Sometimes an odd fantasy occurs to me. It’s actually a trope I’ve seen in science fiction now and again, a form of solipsism. In effect, sometime I wonder if I cannot experience my own death, or perhaps I’m already deep in the midst of the experience, while my mind continues to create a simulacrum of reality around me. Logically, I’d eventually be the last man on the empty Earth if this were somehow true.

I don’t think it’s an escapist fantasy on my part. I’m escaping nothing. More of a weird fillip of my literary brain. Like my occasional expectation of a deus ex machine sweeping in at the last moment and saving me from the grave. An odd twinge in my thinking, to say the least.

[cancer] A bit more detail on my oncological hypochondria

I’ve mentioned numerous times enjoying what I sarcastically refer to as “oncological hypochondria”. Meaning, experiencing every somatic change or irregularity in my body as if it were a sign of impending trouble on the cancer front.

This is less of a joke than it used to be, given that I am probably entering my terminal decline right now. It used to be that when I had a problem, I wondered if that meant the cancer was returning. Not so much any more. The disease is back with a pervasive, terminal vengeance. Now when I have a problem, I wonder if that means a step in my irreversible slide toward death.

Specific things that are going on right now:

Oversleeping — I am sleeping more than I used to. That’s normal for any post-operative patient, and I am recently post-operative. It’s also one of the specific markers of terminal decline, at least given my most likely failure modes. I cannot judge whether the oversleeping is one, the other or both.

Reduced energy — For example, Lisa Costello and I yesterday took the Metro from Rockville to DC to have lunch with her Day Jobbe workgroup, which is based in downtown DC. Two forty-five minute Metro rides and twenty minutes of walking back and forth in the cold absolutely wiped me out physically and mentally for the rest of the day. As with the oversleeping, this could be a post-operative issue, or a harbinger of terminal decline, or both.

Kennel cough — I’ve got a very odd little cough these days. It’s not connected to a sore throat, post-nasal drip, or any sign of impending infection. I just cough, a tiny, little apologetic thing like a baby’s cough, that often comes in pairs. My best guess is that I am producing more saliva than I used to, and it’s draining into the back of my throat. What the hell does this mean? I don’t know. Cue more worry.

Chest pain — Ok, let’s get real. I had a right thoracotomy less than three weeks ago. Of course I have chest pain. But the pain has settled in a spot below and to the left of my right pectoral. Which was in no way directly affected by the surgery. Likely this is a knot of referred pain, perhaps the trunk end of the nerve on that rib, but it’s persistent and annoying, and seems to be happily outlasting the receding pain from the surgery site itself. (Sites, actually, since I had VATS surgery, meaning there are five small but distinct entry and exit wounds.) What does that mean?

Appetite — My appetite continues irregular. I eat a very modest breakfast, tend to eat a full lunch or close to it, and eat a very modest dinner. I’m pretty sure my calorie intake is below target now, though we don’t have a scale in the hotel, so I can’t track any weight swings, which for me based on experience are known to be a pretty good proxy for calorie intake. Like extended sleep hours and daytime lassitude, reduced appetite and weight loss are symptoms I’ve been told to expect in the process of terminal decline.

In a sense, this is all dithering. I’m dying. That is a thing which is true. What we’re up to here at NIH might buy me some time, maybe months, maybe a year, though more likely not. It won’t cure me. My body is under assault from within, and at some point this endless stubbornness of mine that has kept me going will collapse under that assault. Still, I watch the signs, wondering which twinges are just middle age and hard use, and which twinges are glaring idiot lights on my personal dashboard of death.

Weirdly, some days I just want to get on with the business of it. So, weirdly, some days I almost hope for the worst.

[cancer] Field notes from Cancerland, gearing back up for the hospital edition

Where’s Jay

I am back in Rockville, MD, with Lisa Costello and Dad, waiting for the call to go back into the hospital. We had a lovely week in Ocean City. At this point, given the extra step of the mutation-driven selection of my TIL cells, I don’t expect to go into the hospital before next week, but anything is possible.

The weather outside is frightful

Not really. Though it’s been mighty cold almost the entire time we’ve been in Maryland, including the December/January trip for study enrollment. Not one, but two polar vortices. Meanwhile, back in Portland, snow accumulation yesterday was about 10 inches. With up to an inch of ice atop that by tonight thanks to freezing rain. This in a metropolitan area with no snow plows, salt or sand trucks, or (except for the winter sports people) much experience in snow driving. [info]the_child has been home from school since midday Thursday, and I’m pretty sure is getting cabin fever.

Restarting my routines

This morning I spent ten minutes on the recumbent bike in the hotel gym. That’s the first time I’ve exercised (other than incidental walking around) since the surgery. My legs and lungs were doing fine, but I was starting to get pain in my right chest, associated with the surgery site, so I stopped. I also resumed my formal meditation practice this morning, albeit at a shorter time than usual. So I’m getting back to what passes for normal these days. Until the hospital interrupts it all again.

The chest pain

No, not in the heart attack sense. Post-operative pain and discomfort in my right chest. The actual surgery wounds vary from inert to uncomfortable to mildly painful, depending on my body posture and activity level. Lying in bed reading Facebook, they don’t bother me at all. However, the knot of pain in my rib (number six, I think) persists with annoying consistency. The pain knot isn’t actually at any point directly affected by the surgery. I believe, based on my prior experience of my left thoracotomy back in 2009, that I’m experiencing referred pain from the surgery site.

To be clear, everything I have now is low-grade pain, falling somewhere between discomfort and two or so on the pain scale. Irritating and distracting, but not debilitating. Given that I’m only seventeen days out of surgery, that’s just fine with me.

The intersection of surgical recovery and terminal decline

All of the above being said, my oncological hypochondria persists. I should be moving along nicely into my terminal decline about now. So I wonder, is this chest pain a symptom of larger issues? Am I not going to heal completely from the surgery due to my body’s depleted ability to respond? Why is my GI doing [whatever it’s doing today]? I’ve been oversleeping, by my standards, but I know that’s perfectly normal for post-operative recovery. I keep wondering if I should be doing better than I am. It’s a lovely place to be, inside my head.

Attitude

I’ve had a number of occasions to recount my medical history recently, ranging from abbreviated casual conversations to my recent visit to the urgent care center in Ocean City to have my stitches removed. Almost without exception, people compliment me on my attitude. You know what? My attitude sucks. It’s terrible. I’m always torn between rage and grief and fear. But I don’t wear that around. I don’t lead with it, and I rarely follow up with it. Not because I’m suppressing or in denial. Rather, because angry and depressed is no way to live. So I choose otherwise. But the hard, bitter reality is never far from the surface. Whenever someone tells me I have a good attitude, I can feel the monster flashing a fin.

Still looking at death, every day

In the car driving from Ocean City to Rockville yesterday, Lisa Costello talked about what we refer to as “cancer thoughts”. Mine and hers, though mostly mine. It’s not a frequent topic between us. For one thing, most of what needs to be said has been said. For another, it’s a godawful buzzkill. Most of the time you just have to live your life. Even now, when I’m a giant sack of tumors with a punched ticket, we still have to live our lives. But it’s always there. Breathing in my ear. Freezing my heart. Talking to me in the twinges and cramps of my body. There is no escape.

I miss my willful innocence.

[photos] The Delmarva Peninsula and Wallops Island

Yesterday I drove down the Delmarva Peninsula to NASA’s Wallops Visitor Center, plus a quick swing through Chincoteague. I’ll observe that the Virginia end of the peninsula is much more economically distressed than the Maryland end, judging by the abandoned housing stock, the desolate small town business centers, and the general depopulation. The whole area had something of a Blair Witch vibe. Also, Virginia doesn’t seem to be able to pick up their roadside litter nearly as effectively as Maryland, which is a passive testament to constrained resources.

Still, it was pretty, if a bit strange.

The Wallops Visitor Center was fun and kind of cute, basically a small and slightly random museum to NASA operations with an understandable focus on the site’s role. Sadly for my goals of the day, there’s no longer any public access to the Mid-Atlantic Regional Spaceport, or anywhere within line of sight of it, except for a little bit of on-the-horizon visibility from the Chincoteague causeway.

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Abandoned house in Horntown, VA.

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Yard in Horntown, VA. Note the egret stencil spray painted on the side of the shed.

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Side road near Horntown. This looked unaccountably spooky to me.

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Gulls at Chincoteague. I didn’t have the right camera with me, so it doesn’t come out well, but this picture has a lot of gulls in it.

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Abandoned drive in movie theatre, West Ocean City, MD.

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Observation deck of the NASA Wallops Visitors Center.

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Rocket on static display at the NASA Wallops Visitors Center.

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Another rocket on static display at the NASA Wallops Visitors Center.

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Spherical movie screen at the NASA Wallops Visitors Center.

Photos © 2014, Joseph E. Lake, Jr.

Creative Commons License

This work by Joseph E. Lake, Jr. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

[personal] The things I did yesterday

I slept in.

I watched the beach out of the windows of our hotel room.

I had the last stitches from my thoracic surgery removed at an urgent care facility here in Ocean City. (Ouch.) Some pleasantly unexpected personal kindnesses were exchanged.

Lisa Costello and evacuated our room when the hotel alarms went off, slogging through the near-freezing, blowing sideways rain to reach the lobby rather than walk through the building. There we spent twenty minutes or so chatting with the day manager whilst emergency responders tramped around the hotel verifying that it was a false alarm.

I re-read some C.J. Cherryh. I’m still not doing well with new material, but I’m able to reread old material which appeals to me.

We had a truly excellent calzone for dinner at Pizza Tugos.

How was your day?

[travel] One of the perils of hotel living

We’ve been living in the Best Western in Rockville, MD lately, though in fact today Lisa Costello and I are decamping for Ocean City, MD for a quiet week before plunging back into the busy-ness of NIH and my clinical trial. But given my career of the past fifteen years or so (both Day Jobbe and writing, come to think of it), I’ve spent probably 1,500 or 2,000 nights in hotels in that time. I’ve experienced almost everything you might expect to in that time.

This morning one of the perils of hotel living was brought back to me in force. At 5:30 am on a Saturday, the alarm in the room next door went off at full volume. A series of beeps, followed by the jangle of a radio not quite tuned in properly. Loud enough to wake me from a these-days-rare sound sleep. After a couple of minutes, I got up and investigated. It was even louder in the hall.

Sometimes people check out and leave the alarm turned on. So I called down to the front desk and got no answer. I got dressed and took myself down to the lobby, where I found the night clerk and spoke to him. He said someone was checked in to the room next door. A few minutes later, heard loud knocking.

That damned alarm blared from 5:30 to 6:12 before cutting out. Later, when I went down to breakfast, I could still hear the radio through my neighbor’s door, though it was no longer blasting through the wall between us.

Hearing impaired? Ill? So drunk they couldn’t react to their alarm? Anti-social idiot? I’ll never know.

But yeah, this is the glamor.

[cancer|science] Touring the TIL Cell laboratory, finding big science in my genes

Yesterday, the scientist in charge of some of the big science behind my TIL cell therapy took us on a tour of his lab, as well as a flyby of the TIL Cell lab, where they are growing my wee little TIL cells to their full robustness (ca. 30-100 billion cells at the end of the process). (I did secure permission to mention his name and use of these photos, for noncommercial purposes such as this blog.) Dr. Eric Tran, Ph.D., Postdoctoral Fellow, Surgery Branch, Tumor Immunology Section was kind enough to spend an hour walking us around and talking through the biology of what Dr. Rosenberg’s group is hoping to do for me.

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Dr. Tran his own self.

As is the case with most bio labs I’ve seen, at first glance there’s not all that much to look at. Everything important is happening in little dishes inside of incubators. But there’s still cool science stuff sitting around, and cool science people doing cool science things. And since this science has a great deal to do with the current attempt to extend my life and wrest more time from the thieving arms of cancer, I was very glad to see what I could see and learn what I could learn.

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Typical lab sign. I took this to mean “don’t eat your lunch in here”.

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Except this one. I took this one to mean “don’t even think about ever having eaten your lunch in here”.

Dr. Tran showed us the door to the lab where my main cultures are growing right now. They are culturing both my B cells and TIL cells. The B cells are in part to provide a medium for the TIL cells, and part to do Science!!! with me as the human petri dish. The lab is off-limits for non-workers, for reasons of safety and sterility. (The cell cultures’ safety and sterility, not ours.)

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The lab where little bits of me are rapidly becoming lots more little bits of me. Hi, kids!

He then took us down to another lab where other human TIL cells are being cultivated for experimental work rather than clinical treatment.

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The official TIL cell lab, where bits of me ain’t.

There we saw TIL cells in their media packages within the incubator, as well as under an optical microscope. This was pretty cool, as we saw the difference between activated and inactivated TIL cells.

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Lisa Costello, learning something.

That distinction between inactive and active is one of the things on which this whole treatment concept hinges. Healthy human TIL cells can be found interpenetrated with many kinds of tumor tissue. They have an affinity for tumors, which allows them to locate and invade the tumor. But the cancer has an ability to inactivate them, or leave them inactivated, depending on the situation. In effect, the cancer can turn these immune cells off.

Dr. Rosenberg’s group, through the work of researchers such as Dr. Tran, have found that the TIL cells can be reactivated. Once turned on, they will then attack the cancer cells which they previously interpenetrated on a quiescent basis. This works in the mouse model. This works in the petri dish with human cells. This works in some human cancers, such as melanomas. Dr. Tran’s area of study is how this might work in digestive cancers, such as my metastatic colon cancer.

What they did after last Thursday’s surgery was mince most of the retrieved tumor tissue down to very fine pieces, a few millimeters in diameter at most. This is still much larger than the relevant cells, so most were not damaged. The tumor chunks were then placed in a medium which is very friendly to TIL cells. My TIL cells began outmigrating from the tumor chunks at a vigorous rate. Dr. Tran felt this was a good sign, which was also a comment made by my two primary doctors, Dr. Klebanoff and Dr. Klemen. My B cells derived from my recent apheresis have also been cultivating well. This makes all three of them hopeful for the next steps.

Where things get kind of different for me is that thanks to all you folks out there in the world, I brought my own Whole Genome Sequencing (WGS) data to the party. In that data, the researchers found that my colon cancer has over 100 mutations, which is somewhat higher than normal, but not freakishly so. In identifying these mutations, the researchers can add an extra step to their protocol which they’ve only ever been able to do once before, and never with WGS data. That is to say, Dr. Tran will introduce those mutations specific to my cancer genome to my own B cells, then assessing whether my TIL cells react to any of the mutations as expressed in those B cells.

In effect, Dr. Tran can select from among my TIL cells for those mostly likely to target known mutation sites in the cancer’s genome, and thus attack only the cancer cells in my body. This adds a layer of genomic medicine to the already distinctly high-tech immunotherapy which is being studied in this protocol. He can then be sure that Dr.s Klebanoff and Klemen are working with the best possible pool of TIL cells to put back into my body in the infusion phase of the protocol.

This is about as cutting edge as it gets. The one other patient they tried this was someone they were able to do an Exome Sequencing run on, which can be critically valuable. I’m the first patient ever to bring the sequencing data in the door with me. And with my WGS data, Dr. Rosenberg’s team has the keys to the kingdom.

So Dr. Tran is using Big Science and Big Data to build the most efficient TIL cell infusion possible for Drs. Klebanoff and Klemen to go after my cancer.

The downside, such as it is, is that this filtering and selection of my TIL cells may add as much as a week to my TIL cell infusion start date, and may keep me in the NIH hospital as much as a week longer than we originally anticipated.

It doesn’t get much cooler than this. New doors in immunotherapy and genomic medicine are being opened by my case, with your support, first of the Sequence a Science Fiction Writer fundraiser last year, and ongoing right now the Science Fiction Author on Trial (NIH trial, that is!) fundraiser. Even though we’ve met goal on the new fundraiser, the targeted mutation screening step has added several thousand more dollars to our costs by extending our stay in Maryland, so every dollar helps.

By reading, by promoting, by donating, by supporting, this community of my friends and fans and readers and genre folk and cancer activists and patients and caregivers have helped slap down a big old paving stone on the path to better, more effective cancer treatments. I’m out at the pointy end of the stick right now, being helped by Dr. Tran and Dr. Klebanoff and Dr. Klemen and Lisa Costello and Dad and my family and friends, but none of us would be out here on the stick without you.

Thank you so very much.

I’ll leave you with this final thought from the hallway outside the labs.

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Photos © 2008, 2014, Joseph E. Lake, Jr. All photos taken with permission.

Creative Commons License

This work by Joseph E. Lake, Jr. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

[cancer] Surviving the trip, surviving the hospital

Tuesday morning getting to the airport was tough. 205 was all but closed down by multiple accidents. Mom drove me on surface streets. As I was checking in at the airport for my nonstop flight to DCA, the flight was cancelled. Literally while I was at the counter. So many flights were being cancelled due to the East Coast weather that the best rebook I could get was the same flight the next day, Wednesday. This would have put me at the NIH hospital at 7 or 8 pm the evening before my surgery first thing the next day. Given that I had a schedule of pre-operative testing, that wasn’t going to be very practical. I would lose my surgery slot and have to reschedule everything, probably weeks down the road.

Mom drove me home again, while I texted and emailed with various folks. Donnie Reynolds was offering to drive me to NIH in Bethesda if I could get as far to the east as I could, but coming from the west, Memphis was the closest airport that wasn’t being shut down. Then my friend Gray Rinehart Facebook messaged me that if I could fly into Raleigh-Durham, he could drive me to DC Wednesday morning.

Even that was cutting it too close for comfort, but Donnie was willing to fly to Raleigh-Durham and drive me overnight.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t get anyone at NIH on the phone due to so many offices being shut down with the weather. After consulting with Lisa Costello and Dad, I made a command decision to buy the stupidly expensive and completely unbudgeted one way ticket to Raleigh-Durham, arriving at 11:40 pm Tuesday night. (The same night I was supposed to check in to the hospital around 7 or 8 pm.)

I flew. Donnie caught up with me in Dallas, where we ate Monte Cristo sandwiches at Bennigan’s, then we flew on to Raleigh-Durham. The woman on our row was struggling with a panic attack after boarding, to the point where the flight attendant was obviously considering putting her off the plane rather than risk an in-flight emergency. When we got to Raleigh-Durham, we were stuck on the plane an extra ten minutes because the jetbridge had frozen and could not be moved up to deboard the aircraft.

Donnie and I got my luggage with the help of the world’s worst wheelchair attendant, then picked up the car he’d rented. He drove us from there to Bethesda, which took about five hours even in the teeth of the dying storm. I slept perhaps three hours of the trip. We arrived at 5:30 am, Donnie dropped me off at the hotel, then turned around and headed back to Raleigh-Durham.

I woke up Lisa and Dad, we got sorted out, and headed to NIH around 6:30 am.

The morning was confusing. My hospital admittal orders were dated Tuesday 1/21, and it was Wednesday 1/22. The admitting department couldn’t do anything until someone from the research group changed the paperwork. So I went to my CT scan appointment, as well as getting some bloodwork done in phlebotomy. We went back to wait some more, and were eventually admitted.

After going upstairs to my ward, in a shared room two-bed room, I was told I also had a chest x-ray and an EKG required. Meanwhile, a parade of people came by to see me.

The two immunotherapy doctors handling my case were very glad I’d busted my hump to be here today, as it kept from having to cancel me and reschedule down the road. The social worker called to tell me a room had opened up in the on-site family lodge. Lisa and Dad went off to deal with that. One of the immunotherapy doctors and the Principal Investigator came by to talk about my blog and discuss how I could talk about the study, and whether I would like to be part of an article about the study. The two immunotherapy doctors came back by to talk about the surgery the next day (today, now), which has definitively been planned for my right lung. We discussed the pros and cons of the approaches, and why they’d settled on this one. Essentially, a sufficient amount of tissue to be harvested without the potential entanglements of scarring and adhesions which my left lung would likely present. They will attempt a VATS (laparascopic) approach first, with open thoracotomy as the fallback. Someone from the publicity department came by to have me sign a model release. The Principal Investigator came back with a publicity team to do a photo shoot of he and I for that NIH article. The immunotherapy doctors came back to discuss post-operative timing and TIL growth. The head of thoracic surgery came by with some of his team to review tomorrow’s procedure and have me sign the informed consent forms. One of the thoracic surgery research nurses came back to have me sign some more consent forms about blood transfusions and so forth.

All this while I’m running on three hours of sleep after a travel day that was over twenty hours long.

On the plus side, we had a very nice dinner at Pizzeria de Marco. (I got a hall pass from the hospital to go out.) On the far more plus side, the procedures are going forward as originally scheduled, which makes it all worthwhile.

But whew.