Yesterday Mr. Boy had unexplained pain. When you have cancer, the doctors tell you what should hurt, and how much, and to tell them if your pain is not typical. So he did. And after tests, they saw that despite the aggressive chemotherapy, his cancer spread to his lungs. In a "normal patient," they would advise continuing the chemo for the full cycle, as the full cycle is perhaps necessary for any effectiveness, but with an HIV+ patient with a very low CD4 count, it's too stressful on the body to continue the treatment.
What happens now is that the cancer will replicate, filling Mr. Boy's lungs until he can no longer breathe. Without intervention, he may also suffer renal failure. Mr. Boy does not want drastic measures, so the care he is receiving now is purely palliative. The doctors say he has less than a week
I am in Toronto to be with Mr. Boy. He's currently quoting Shakespeare, clearly using the time he has breath for its most exalted purpose. He has to stop every few minutes to catch his breath. I'm trying to be present, to enjoy the Shakespeare, to enjoy him before he's gone.
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