Like many, I’ve been watching a lot of sports documentaries over the last couple months. ESPN’s take on the rise and fall of cyclist Lance Armstrong ( "LANCE") stuck with me. On Tuesday, after weeks of nearly constant conversation and consultation, Orli unofficially completed her chemotherapy. It didn't go down like you'd think.

I had repeatedly fantasized that it would feel like a yellow jersey in Paris moment - a triumphant Greg LeMond or an underdog, pre-scandal, Lance Armstrong, pedaling up the Champs Elysees arms outstretched - perhaps champagne flute in one hand - gliding towards adulation and a clear moment of victory.

It wasn't. At all. At best it felt like we were an exhausted baseball team who backed our way into the playoffs after a rain out. Like we had huddled around a small TV in a cramped visitors' locker room watching division rivals lose and thereby earning a playoff spot.

And here's where the sports analogy fully breaks down or the complexity ramps up. Orli had spent much of May in the hospital and all of June waiting for her blood counts (specifically her ANC, or absolute neutraphil count, which determines ability to fight infection) to be high enough to enable an 8th and final round of chemo. During this time, we agonized over treatment direction, the stark trade-offs between potentially irreparably damaging one organ system to optimize chemo dosing for another organ system. We - and this included - our active, in house experts of oncologists, drs and nurses - debated relative risk and reward of pushing more treatment for a very unusual disease presentation.

In the end, Orli’s chemo-wait ended after four weeks. Heading into another set of labs today, her ANC is still under 500 - she didn't hit the threshhold. The doctors said the risks of waiting more outweigh the benefit - basically "congrats, Orli's done with chemo." And now we wait.

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Living with a professional writer there's a lot of talk of narrative. During certain projects you can almost feel a story arc taking shape around you. At home it seems to be in the air.

Over the last three months, I’ve noticed that everyone's constructing and reconstructing narratives, nearly all the time. Not just the professionals. Perhaps because the world feels so generally off kilter, many of us are looking to make sense of the things going on around us by framing and re-framing the stories we tell ourselves.

And I’ve become acutely aware that cancer doesn’t conform to any one narrative arc no matter how much we wish it would. Many, many friends and well-wishers have congratulated us at different points – and this feels – to me at least strange – well-meaning but wildly off-base. They want to believe – perhaps – as we would as well– that after our mad dash to Boston just ahead of what would become the COVID-19 lock-down – we’d steadily progress from doubt to certainty, illness to health. That has not been the case.

For many - us included - ramifications and impacts of childhood cancer don't wrap up neatly or conclusively. In fact, her treatment post-transplant has been, on the whole, harder than anything that came before. Orli fought off a post-chemo infection, a stint in the ICU, chronic kidney injury related to her immunosuppression meds and epic lethargy and nausea that almost defy description.

Since we’ve been home, she requires daily intravenous hydration to keep her kidneys comfortable and her intestinal upset at bay. This has us hanging IV fluid bags twice a day like something out of Ondaatje’s The English Patient - though with none of the romance or scenery. Our doctors tell us that post-transplant patients nearly always have several rounds of chemo and each gets harder than the next. And of course, like so many friends and family - all things that are tough or isolating - get magnified during this COVID-19 pandemic. We’re still (and likely for a while yet) forced to be very socially distant. At home but not really at ease. So we’re not at an end, as much as a new beginning. A new beginning that with a little help may include a long wished for and promised pet.
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Orli would say we’ve 100% buried the lede of the story. She’s wanted a dog for years. And literally, within 48 hours of diagnosis, Orli pitched us again – “this is going to be tough, I think I need a dog as a support animal.” At some point during the depths of treatment, before Boston, we acquiesced and agreed to get a dog after she finished chemo (and by we, I basically mean me) I caved and promised make this happen - to help her build back her strength and give us all something to cuddle with.)

Now the dog quest starts in earnest. Because of Orli’s transplant, we can’t get a puppy. We can only get a dog that is at least 12 months old. We’re looking for something that’s not too big - under 40 lbs fully grown. Because of some allergy issues we (like most of America) are looking for a no-shed/low-shed animal. A poodle mix or lab mix has been suggested. And because our lives have been crazy, we’re looking for a good natured, gentle animal that is great with kids and won’t scare Orli’s younger sister.

We’re told this combination of attributes are tough to find in one dog. So if you can help Orli and her sister get this dog –we’d welcome help. We hope to get her dog this summer. So if you happen to be in the dog rescue, foster, or dog breeding world and have a beat on a great young-adult dog for Orli and her family – please reach out. We're ready and excited – Hana and Orli have a whole lot of love to give.