Interim Maintenance is not just something you do to your car every 15,000 miles. It’s also something you do when your body just craves medicines with pretty names like Vincristine or robot sounding names like Methotrexate every 10 days.
Treatment day was good. In fact, according to Payson, it was the best treatment day ever. He said that with a little too much excitement maybe, but at this point we are just looking for wins, quality be damned.
His next treatment is in 10 days. During this Interim Maintenance phase, the treatments are count dependent, sort of like old Sesame Street episodes. So, we will have home health people out the day before each treatment to lecture us about saturated fats and to take his labs. They don’t expect his counts to be down necessarily, but every treatment escalates and they won’t give him the next one if he’s low.
Also, in non-hospital related news, we went up to Silver Lake in Brighton on Sunday, along with approximately two-thirds of the population of the State of Utah. It was lovely, in a crowded way.
After that, Payson attempted his first sleepover with cousins since he started treatment. He came home about 11:30pm, after having suffered the indignity of trying to sleep in a 1984 Tioga RV. I don’t blame him for his offense at this garish lack of class on the part of my sister’s family.
Also, due to all of the cravings and the unending supply of curly fries, Payson finally ripped through the bed of our old tramp. So we swapped it out for one we found on KSL Classifieds for $100. Super trustworthy, and it’s got the big springs, so you get a LOT more air with this one. It’s almost like we can’t get enough of the hospital! We welcome injuries! We love painful dislocations and rust poisoning! We have no fear! We maxed out our deductible weeks ago!
Also, yesterday we celebrated Indecision Day here in America, a centuries old tradition wherein we honor the legacy of Ben Franklin and his seeming total inability to decide on an appropriate hairstyle. Like seriously was he bald? Was he growing out the backend for Locks of Love? Make a decision, dude. Known as “The Father of the Mullet,” Franklin’s legacy lives on, adorning the heads of countless Americans in areas of the country where the chewing tobacco industry still thrives.
On Indecision day morning, Payson had the awesome experience of going to a parade, wherein he sat for 90 minutes in 90 degree heat to watch a three mile long caravan of dance studios and dentists throw a few dozen pieces of saltwater taffy. Yay for that.
Afterwards, we smoked some meats, lit some fireworks, and busted some glow sticks. I think we’ve got a spicy mixture of repressed feelings and pyromaniacs in Centerville, because our neighborhood felt like the Battle of Antietam.
In the immortal words of Orrin Hatch, the first United States senator constructed entirely of vulcanized rubber and recycled metals, “America rocks! It’s totally cool!”
Finally, I am happy to report that, on his fourth fishing outing of the year, Payson finally caught some fish. Actual fish. Real, stinky, slimy fish. Seven of them.
- His father wasn’t there,
- He actually used a hook and viable bait, wherein on two previous outings he either didn’t have an actual hook or he was using Powerbait that had the consistency of powdered Tang.
- His Uncle Rod was there, and he knows what the hell he’s doing.
- Because his Uncle Rod smells like fish.
Summertime is summertime, even when you’re kicking pigs.