I went through 5 years of fighting for my life. You can read my profile for a brief description of the ordeal by scrolling down. As some of you know i am writing an inspirational book. Following is an unedited excerpt from Chapter 4 of my book titled "Between the Summit and Grave". I hope to finish the book within the year and have started a book list. If you would like to purchase the book when finished please email me at fourwindsexpeditions@gmail.com
I will return to the Tibet trip in a week or so. Stay tuned and enjoy. Matt
My trip to Thailand rejuvenated my body slightly but elevated my mind to a new level.
I was slated to start a regimen of ATG. It is an antibody grown in a horse. With this 10 round regimen over 10 days 6 hours a day I took the Japanese zen saying to heart. “Have a cup of Tea” The idea is that you sit down and take a moment with yourself in hopes that in those moment you come to know your mind. It is an invitation to discover the universal truth within ourselves, a moment of awareness, it is like the act of sitting and experiencing enlightenment.
It was a new year 2005, January, 5 months from diagnosis. I would be entering the (hospital name) for 10 days to start my therapy. The idea is that the antibody grown in a horse would attack the bad cells that were attacking my bone marrow. A kind of suppression of bad cells to give breathing room for my marrow to begin production. Side effects of the 10 day regimen are described as follows:
Possible kidney damage or failure
Damage to vision and possible loss of sight
Severe fever
Mouth thrush
Vomiting
Dizziness
The list goes on but I am emotional to go back there and put it down on this page. I can remember Doctor white and many nurses trying to make joke of the experience. In Dr. Whites words “ Matt this therapy has shown results. At the end you are going to feel like a dump truck has run over you, but we have a good chance of spontaneous regeneration” I had a good rapport with Dr. White and I am sure he could not have explained the experience to other patience using quite the same words. I laughed and told him that I used to love dump trucks as a kid and maybe I can re-spark that love. We laughed hard and the nurse, in the middle of the laughter, asked if I was ready. A quiet filled the room. I thought for a few moments, of my life, where I was at. Chapa’s words “Life takes you” filtered through my wavering mind. I looked over at the IV pump machine that would administer the ATG. Five to 6 other bags of various medications hung. Cyclosporin to suppress my old immune system, prednizone to encourage red blood cell production, and several others. I already felt like a dump truck ran over me from being on these meds for the past 4 months........ “I’m ready."
The nurse began with taking my vitals. The therapy was so intense on the body that my vitals would be taken every 2 hours 24 hours a day for the entire course of therapy. After taking my vitals another nurse entered the room and they both began dressing in protective clothing and gloves. At this point I had not had any Chemotherapy but soon would find out that this protective clothing is donned each time a regimen would be administered. It is ominous to watch. Imagine two nurses dressed in a kind of HASMAT (hazardous material) suit handling a plastic bag of medicine like it would kill them if they came into contact. Now imagine them, masked, rubber gloved, smocked, hooking it up to a pump which is connected by tube directly to your blood supply, starting the pump, and flooding your blood with such a concoction. It would be an occurrence that I would grow accustomed to in the following years but today it was new and startling. My mind pattern: “This stuff must be horrible, why do they need to dress like that, this stuff is going inside of me, death, bring it on, cute nurses, I must look like shit, I will look like shit, can I make this, medicine looks like vodka, no color, pure, ah it will be ok, pure clean, is this the right medication, cute nurses? All this in a thought that lasted a second.
The nurses approached. They began a protocol that would be common place throughout my ordeal. One nurse read off my name, age, birth date, dosage and the other nurse would concur. I would answer yes or no if I was indeed Matt Fioretti and I was indeed 38 years old. At the time of writing this I am overwhelmed with emotion. I was 38 years old when diagnosed with an illness that could kill me, I pause to ponder.
When all is checked the nurses sign off. One nurse hangs a final bag on the IV pole. Punches some numbers in and the red digital numbers bounce on the screen. She mumbles to remind herself of the flow rate. The pump jumps to life, a sound and rythym that I would be comforted by in the years to come. The clear fluid resembling Vodka flowed down the clear tube and neared my vain. My last thought pattern: Shit, I wish that was vodka.