Strange Parcel ...

Yesterday, I got a rather large parcel via UPS, and I had no idea what it was. About 99.99999% of things I order online are books, and this box could have held the New York Public Library (I exaggerate?). I didn't recognize the return address. But I whipped out my trusty Swiss army knife, sliced the packing tape, and found ... as you see above ... a backpack!

Now ... those of you who know the Me of Recent Years know that I haul a backpack around all the time, a sack filled with books and papers and pencils and pens and chargers and ... stuff I won't even remember until I clean it out the next time I get a new one (should there ever be such a time).

My current backpack is fairly new. Very sturdy. I love it.

So what is a new one doing here? And who sent it? And why does it have a STOP sign affixed to it?

There was a packing slip attached (see image at the bottom of this post), and it was not until I read it that I realized the package had come from the Provenge company--Provenge, the T-cell enhancement therapy I will commence this week to help my own body do a better job of fighting the prostate cancer that just will not go away, despite surgery, radiation, and hormone-suppression therapy. I've been living with this unwelcome guest since late 2004 when I had my first biopsy ...

I learned via the slip, by the way, that it's not a backpack; it's a "Patient Comfort Kit."

As I've written here before, the treatment process will take five weeks, starting this coming Tuesday at 8 a.m., when I go to the Akron Red Cross to have all of my blood drained, some of my T-cells removed, my blood returned, the T-cells sent to Atlanta for super-charging with Provenge, my energized T-cells returned to me on Friday down at Seidman Cancer Center, University Hospitals in University Circle, not far from Severance Hall, which is where I'd rather be going, believe me.

I didn't have the guts to open the pack right away (it had arrived mid-morning), but after supper, my courage inflated by the turkey burger I'd just broiled and eaten, I opened it on the couch, Joyce beside me.

And inside?

A variety of goodies ...

• Some packets of Crystal-Lite (various flavors)--which I can presumably mix and consume in the little water bottle that's part of the backpack.
• A couple of ballpoint pens (apparently, I'm going to write--a lot--during the procedure).
• A notebook. (Ditto.)
• A knitted cap. (Some people get the chills during the process.)
• A rolled blanket. (Chills.)
• A booklet about what I'm going to undergo--and the possible side-effects, etc. (Many are mild; some--not so.)

So ... Tuesday and Friday this week. Then a week off. Then another Tues-Fri. Then a week off. Then a final Tues-Fri.

And then we will see ...

I was a little alarmed (too strong a word?) to read that the process extended the lives of those who've undergone the therapy only about 4.5 months (that's the median--meaning, of course, that half lived less, half more).

I, of course, am determined to blow the top off the chart, so much so that the median will be forced upward ... a lot.

Joyce told me, as I unpacked, that she was touched by all of this--the whole backpack (Patient Comfort Kit) thing. I was too, of course. But also freaked a little: This is going to happen ... and soon.

And so, I tremble ... and reach, again, for Joyce's hand ...