Today was chemo day. They aren’t very fun and involve:

1. very early mornings
2. packing up all the things to get through chemo and necessary equipment to continue the office job/work from a treatment room
3. driving a very long drive
4. dealing with chemo brain – tasting and smelling everything yuck even before the taste and smell are reality
5. doctor assessments and actual chemo
6. driving another very long drive back home

We thought we were one step ahead this morning at 5 am. We were proactive and changed an ostomy bag, retaping and resealing so there would be absolutely no possibility of any accidentals on this lovely 4 degree day of January.

We ate a fast breakfast of grapefruit, bagel, and eggs and loaded up the laptop, the bag of snacks, the paperwork, the extra supplies JUST IN CASE the no possibility of any accidentals was unrealistic, the two drinks, and our coats for this lovely 4 degree day of January.

We were not ONE HOUR down the road, when Sam announced,

“Oops, I crapped my pants.”

I am paraphrasing, based on a Saturday Night Live sketch from the late ’90s of a commercial for the Oops I Crapped My Pants adult diapers.

But seriously. He did.

Except that when it happens to an ostomy recipient, it happens right there in the front of your belly, right down the front of your very comfortable sweat pants. You know, the ONLY pair of very comfortable sweat pants. You know, in the middle of the darkness on a lonely highway before 7 am, witnessed by only the moon and a stadium of stars.

Sometimes you just have to laugh so that you don’t cry.

Fortunately, we had plenty of wet wipes, a new ostomy bag, and all the supplies. Fortunately, where we were headed also provided a WalMart with new sweat pants and underwear. Fortunately, we were NOT on Scofield time today and had 5 minutes to spare. Fortunately, new sweat pants were on clearance and no one in their right mind ventured to WalMart at 7:45 am on this lovely 4 degree day of January.

Fast forward to our very first meeting with our official home-away-from-home oncologist, 2nd in command under Dr. Al-Rajabi, Roberto Rodriguez.

(We have been attempting to meet this rock star of an oncologist – handpicked by Dr. Al – for four treatments now. Dr. Rodriguez is swamped, and so we have been under the watchful care of the temporary team of doctors in Hays. No problem. They are great. It’s just that Dr. Rodriguez was a fellow under Dr. Al at KU, and Dr. Al only relinquished control of Sam’s treatment IF we were seen by Dr. Rodriguez out here where the cowboys roam. Suffice it to say, Dr. R came HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.)

So today was THE day.

We sat in the room, waiting to meet this guy, when the door opened wide and the first words out of his mouth after his introduction and handshakes were, “I see we’re going to have a problem here.”

Heart stoppage.

And then, he pointed to Sam’s K STATE WILDCATS shirt, big as Dallas, and my K State purple t-shirt peeking out from under my hooded warmth.

This guy BLEEDS red, blue, and Jayhawkiness. I don’t believe I have ever met a more KU-KU’er.

Sometimes you just have to laugh so that you don’t cry.

And from the moment he began to give Sam CRAP about collegiate loyalty, we knew we were in the best hands, once again. He was like the Tasmanian devil whirlwind, handling Sam’s extensive paperwork and going through all the details, talking faster than a highway ostomy change, giving Sam time and attention.

But he also did something else.

He got real:

At one point, he asked Sam what the long-term looked like.

Sam expressed his desire to finish all 12 treatments before undergoing the ostomy reversal and lung and liver resectioning surgeries. And once that is over, we’re done.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Or something like that.

Dr. R went on to get real. He got pretty serious. He told us that when a patient is diagnosed with metastatic disease, there isn’t a “done.”

Reality is, Sam will face some sort of treatment, most likely, for the rest of his life.

Cancer cells have gone outside the contained area. It’s a crap shoot to know exactly where they are in the body, and oncologists are doing their best to eliminate them all, but when cancer spreads, you treat. He DID acknowledge that there ARE the stories of God’s miraculous healing, of cancer tumors being plucked from the body via surgeries, and there is absolutely no evidence of cancer years later – and that is what we pray, hope, and believe – but we cannot just “be done.”

Tonight, I am grateful for another pretty amazing KU doctor who has joined our team, even though he has a KU tattoo and disparaged our purpleness.

I am grateful for his frank discussion in that treatment room this morning.

I am grateful that God set that moon and the stadium of stars into place, put Roberto Rodriguez under the leadership of Raed Al-Rajabi, and then planted him in Hays America at the end of a stressful morning drive.

I am grateful that God is in charge, not us.

I am grateful that God is never “done.” He’s always at work.

And I am grateful for sweat pants on clearance and a trash can for the oops-I-crapped-my-pantsiness.

Sometimes you just have to laugh so that you don’t cry.