Chapter 7 - Between Rounds, Between Certainties

The next question was whether induction had accomplished its purpose.

My counts had recovered enough for discharge, but recovery from chemotherapy and remission from leukemia were not the same thing.

The medical team needed to look for evidence of disease.

Once again, there was a result I wanted and no way to produce it through effort.

I could attend appointments, cooperate with tests, ask questions, and pray.

I could not change what the test would find by worrying more effectively.

That did not stop me from trying.

Remission

When the news came, it was the news we had wanted and prayed for.

The induction treatment had brought the leukemia into remission.

Remission.

Few words had ever sounded better.

There was joy, relief, and gratitude.

There was also an immediate need to understand what the word meant.

Remission did not mean the entire treatment plan had ended. It meant induction had achieved an essential objective and the next phase could proceed from a position of response.

It was a milestone.

We celebrated it.

I did not want the unfinished nature of treatment to steal the joy of what had happened. Caution did not require emotional stinginess.

We had entered hospital with active leukemia.

The treatment had been hard.

Now the evidence showed that it had worked.

It was medication, research, clinical skill, nursing care, blood donors, family support, and a body that endured the process.

It was grace delivered through many hands. 

Consolidation

The next phase involved consolidation chemotherapy—additional treatment intended to deepen and protect the response.

The name made sense.

Induction had pushed the disease into remission; consolidation would reinforce the gain.

The fact that more treatment was required could feel discouraging if I interpreted remission as proof that no further action should be necessary.

But leukemia treatment was not designed around what sounded emotionally tidy.

The enemy had retreated.

The medical team intended to keep pursuing it. Preparing for chemotherapy again felt different.

The first time, I knew chemotherapy mainly as an idea.

Now I knew something of its physical cost.

I knew what it meant for blood counts to fall.

I knew what fatigue could feel like.

I knew the importance of neutrophils and platelets.

I knew about infection risk, transfusions, mouth care, medications, and the emotional weight of waiting.

Experience reduced some fears and sharpened others.

Courage was not easier because I had done it before.

It was more informed.

The caboose returned, apparently having taken no offence at our separation.

The Emotional Whiplash of Cancer

Cancer does not always allow emotions to arrive in an orderly sequence.

Remission brought joy.

The next treatment brought apprehension.

Home brought relief.

Follow-up appointments brought reminders that the journey remained active.

Improving strength brought hope.

Sudden fatigue brought frustration.

Additional testing brought both confidence in the care team and renewed uncertainty.

These reactions could occur in the same day.

I had once imagined that faith would create a stable emotional platform from which every event could be received calmly.

Instead, faith became the anchor that held while the surface moved.

An anchor does not flatten the water.

It keeps the boat from being carried away.

I could experience fear without becoming only afraid.

I could experience uncertainty without becoming hopeless.

I could celebrate remission without pretending the future was settled.

I could dread another round of treatment and still present myself for it.

Emotional complexity was not spiritual failure.

It was part of being human in a difficult situation.

The Waiting Room

In September, I visited Juravinski each day during the first week of the consolidation cycle.

Sitting in the waiting room, I was overwhelmed by the number of people on cancer journeys. Every person carried a diagnosis, treatment plan, family, fears, hopes, and questions.

My suffering was real.

It was not the only story in the building.

Then I mentioned a runny nose.

They tested me.

COVID.

Really?

Not helpful, COVID.

Not helpful.

Fortunately, the symptoms remained mild, and the team had protocols in place.

Once again, a problem arrived, and people knew what to do.

Hair, or Lack Thereof

Chemotherapy took the hair from my head, which was not high on my list of concerns since I was already halfway there.

Losing my facial hair was a bigger change.

I had almost always worn a beard or goatee. It had become part of my unofficial brand:

Newsboy cap.

Horn-rimmed glasses.

Goatee.

I even owned a T-shirt with the graphic.

Now one part of the brand had disappeared.

I still had the cap.

I still had the glasses.

Treatment could alter my appearance.

It did not get to define my identity.

September 23, 2025

It was a long but positive hospital day.

I received radioactive dye and waited for superpowers, but apparently I needed a radioactive spider for that.

My bloodwork was good.

The full-body scan included a forty-five-minute nap because I was not allowed to move.

The bone marrow biopsy required two attempts.

The best news was that the bone lesions had decreased substantially. That pointed toward leukemia rather than prostate cancer.

Very, very good news.

The investigation had been necessary because the medical team needed to understand whether I was facing two cancers at the same time. Thankfully, the results indicated that I only had to deal with one cancer at the moment.

I counted that as a win.