Over the last month and a half, my capacity for emotion has been checked. I can't quite explain it, but it was sort of like watching my son being born: the situation was absolutely terrifying, but I was completely detached from it, almost like watching it on TV.
That's how I've felt throughout most of this ride: like it's a TV show. Amanda's not really sick: that woman on the show is sick.
But every once in a while the emotion freight-train comes through town, jumps the tracks, and hunts me down. It did so last night, and with good reason.
Amanda got bad news yesterday. By now you've probably read about it on her blog, but the genetics came back, and she has a chromosomal deficiency: -7. That's one of the big baddies, along with -5 and Q3, which, according to the all-knowing wikipedia, has a 5-year survival rate of 15% and a 78% chance of relapse. It's considered to be in the "adverse" category.
So last night, on our 8th anniversary, we were dealing with these emotions while watching the season finale of House. If you saw it, you know that Amber died. We were wrecked.
Here's how it breaks down for us right now:
Amanda will have biopsy #5 tomorrow. She'll then go in for a follow-up on Friday, and probably be re-admitted early next week. At that point she'll undergo chemo #2, the specific course of which will be determined by the results of tomorrow's biopsy.
Things are not good.