Seven Months In and Looking For The Pony

There was a joke circulating during the Cold War era, designed to address the General Immorality Of Communism. A young boy passionately wished for a pony. It was all he wanted, the only thing he talked about morning, noon, and night. When he announced he was going to pray for a pony, local officials laughed and laughed over the stupidity of a young boy. God answers prayers, he said stubbornly; I know he will answer mine.

One day they summoned him to a small building at the edge of a farmyard. They pushed him toward the door, ordering him to open it. When he did, the stench of manure flooded the yard. As the boy looked into the small space, his eyes grew wide. The officials were doubled over laughing. “Boy,” gasped one, “Do you see a pony? No. There is no pony. Where is your God now?” “Oh,” the boy said softly, “Oh. There is so much shit here there has to be a pony.”

I wasn’t very old when I heard this joke, and I may have messed it up completely. But I always took it as being about the power of faith in a Greater Being, not the ignorance of a powerless boy facing a cruelly random world. Maybe faith is as much about the process of seeking as it is about the delivery of special-order package.

Which is good to think of today, on the other side of a difficult week. ‘Cuz I was definitely waist deep, with nary a shovel at hand.

When last heard from, Your Writer was bobbing in the perfect storm of inflammation-inducing events and the rekindling of Pneumonitis. Radiation-related inflammation, for sure. Probably inflammation compounded by immunotherapy, and both of these intensified by inflammation from the Covid shot. And let’s not forget the asthma layer.

There were two very tearful days as I sucked on my nebulizer, coughed a deep, painful cough like a barking seal with a chest cold, stopped to catch my breath walking up stairs or around the block. Even talking left me breathing fast, trying to catch up. It broke me in whole new ways. Could *this* be the latest iteration of the new normal? I wept openly. For the first time, “I feel terrified all the time,” I told my family.

So this week started with an early call to the cancer center and more prednisone. That meant that in a matter of days, the dosage had increased twice, from 10 mg. per day to 40. And there was still my mid-week appointment with Dr. Oncology’s Physician Assistant to look forward to (because Dr. Oncology is out of town.)

Let’s start with the important stuff about my Wednesday appointment: Ms. Physician Assistant’s SHOES WERE TO DIE FOR. So there I sat, breathing rapidly, admiring her shoes as I recounted events since the infusion two weeks prior. How I’d gone from being all Lance Armstrong about my exercise routine to feeling like an Olympic gold medalist for walking 2200 steps in a day. Etc.

I did not expect what happened next.

“I think you have to go to the ER,” she said. “I am worried that you have a blood clot.”

What else is there to do but laugh? Because, seriously, the ER? With its multi-hour wait — like, at least 10– its lack of seating on a good day, the swarm of National Guard members…and a blood clot?

She agreed. “It’s a mess down there,” she said. There were as many reasons why this wouldn’t be a blood clot as why it would, and it would also be better for me to stay away from ERs in general.

We struck a deal: if I could maintain my blood oxygen levels during a walking challenge, I wouldn’t have to go. She swept out of the room. I announced to my family (via FaceTime) that I was not going to the ER without ice cream and a huge cup of coffee. Because, priorities. Then Nurse came in, attached me to the oximeter, and led me around the infusion center like the meek pupster I am.

Ms. Physician Assistant was obviously concerned. There was a lot to weigh, I know. I would go, I told her, really. Except, ugh. Eventually, the alternative plan took shape. Prednisone by the boatload. Nebulizer. Move around to prevent blood clots (which, ultimately, neither of us believed I had– the symptoms just didn’t add up.)

I found out later– in a phone call, on the way home– that I had mostly failed my oxygenation test. My number was one where they like to stick you in a bed and flush you with O2, a little like a balloon. Ms. PA made me promise again that I would go to the ER if I needed to that night, or to call a few days later if things didn’t get better– maybe I would benefit from some home oxygenation, she said in a very serious voice (ooh boy)!

She also had run everything by the super senior lung cancer doctor, who agreed with the inflammation vs. blood clot assessment. Then Dr. Oncology #2 added her own special touch: a prescription for A Very Special Antibiotic to prevent lung cancer patient-pneumonia– if I told you the copay, you would fall over. That alone guarantees its effectiveness, right?

I took some more prednisone after dinner. When I woke up bright and early to gobble my full dose, I could tell things were easing.

After seven months, I keep learning that I really do have cancer. And these past five days make me see how easy I’ve had it so far.

But I gotta say, with all this shit, I’m pretty sure there has to be a pony somewhere nearby.

I hope everyone is bearing up under our natural and political disasters. Just keep thinking, “Pony.”  Together, I know we’re going to make it.