Trucking

If I had no sense of humor, I would long ago have committed suicide.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

My exploration of possible options with M.D. Anderson (MDA) continues today; two scheduled telephone meetings with representatives of the Clinical Center for Targeted Therapy to discuss two clinical trials for which I may qualify. Monday, I expected to be in Houston at least through Tuesday, but learned—for the immediate next steps—I could continue via phone and my MDA patient portal. So, we drove back home yesterday; another grueling 8-hour drive. It is entirely possible I will need to return to Houston next week to continue the vetting process…assuming I decide to continue exploring clinical trials. If I join one of the clinical trials, the first month of my involvement will be intense, requiring me to spend from one to three days at a time at MDA. Thereafter, I would be required to go to Houston at least once a month during the course of the trial. I think. In reviewing the protocols for one of the studies, the complexity of clinical trials became exhaustingly clear to me…yet a bit difficult for me to fully grasp. MDA decisions about my suitability for the clinical trials will follow my own decision about whether I want to move forward. If I say “yes,” the trial sponsors and researchers will still need to confirm that I fully conform to all requirements of participants. I think I already wrote that another option would be to transfer my “standard” treatment (perhaps including genetic treatments) to MDA, which would require me to relocate to Houston for the duration. I have ruled out that option.

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The number of people seeking care at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center is staggering. Several thousand people every weekday receive treatment and/or counseling and/or undergo tests related to every conceivable type of cancer. The weekend numbers are smaller, of course, but significant. Sitting on a bench in one of several lobbies/gathering areas (in one of several large medical buildings), just people-watching, is an education in and of itself. People of every size, shape, and color pass through; some drift by slowly, some scurry, some look lost or confused, and some seem to know precisely where they are headed. The staff members are easy to identify; scrubs or white jackets. Most, though, are not staff. Most are patients and their family or friends, looking for help in slowing or stopping the progression of debilitating or deadly cancers. Many have gone to MDA as a last resort, after having been treated unsuccessfully or unsatisfactorily elsewhere. Some of them were stunned, almost paralyzed, when they were diagnosed with cancer. Others were disappointed with, but not overwhelmed by, the diagnosis. Without knowing anything specifically about any of the people passing by, it is safe to assume that the range of emotions behind their faces is extensive…from terror to acceptance to exhausted resignation.

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The sky this morning is beige, the result of unrelenting winds drawing dust into the atmosphere. There could be other causes, of course; brush fires, forest fires, chemical mists dispersed by strong breezes, smoldering landfills set alight by arsonists or children playing with matches…the list could go on for all eternity. I’m going to stick with dust and high winds. The same high winds that buffeted the car during yesterday’s long drive; those winds that attempted to overturn trucks loaded with spindly pine logs or undocumented families seeking a safer environment than they had in their home countries. I often wonder what semi rigs are hauling in the big boxes behind them. In all probability, most of their loads are legitimate commercial cargo. But some of them might be transporting massive loads of semi-automatic rifles destined for right-wing insurrectionists or stolen cartons of cigarettes on their way to smokers who believe the cost of tobacco products is too high, thanks to taxes and corporate greed. And there may be at least a few big rigs carrying packages of fentanyl and methamphetamine hidden beneath pallets of almost-ripe tomatoes.  The optimist in me sometimes hopes many of the trucks are full of missiles and heavy artillery on the way to left-leaning patriots preparing to overtake and overwhelm the right-wing insurrectionists.  Seriously, though, I would love to know what each of those semis are carrying. A sign on the back of the trailers would do the trick: “Levi’s jeans” or “piñatas” or “tweezers, paper towels, hand soap, butane lighters, marijuana gummies, canned tuna, and whole human blood.” But the wind probably would blow the signs away. Another hope dashed.

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