Wet and Wild

Ken has been wanting a pool, and I've been resisting.  I like having a yard, and I don't like grass-covered, wet feet traipsing across warp-able laminate flooring.  The idea of floating alone in a lounge chair with a drink and a book is appealing, but I can imagine sinking my Kindle.  Also, of course, the drink would be water. 

Water, water, and more water.  Drinking it serves the triple purpose of aiding the dry mouth brought on by the chemo, knocking out the constant thirst brought on by the prednisone, and flushing the chemo out of my system so my body can return to "normal" more quickly after each treatment.  Officially, I need to drink four 20-ounce bottles a day.  In reality, I drink closer to six or seven.  I have a reddish colored bottle I purchased at Target nearly two years ago to reduce my carbon footprint, and I fill it repeatedly.  If you have seen me in the past 6 weeks, you have seen the little handle of my bottle looped through my index finger on my left hand.  It's American Express:  I don't leave home without it.  In my wallet, I carry a note from Dr. Fox advising any interested parties that I am required to have water with me at all times.  Anyone who wouldn't let me would be violating the ADA.  So ha, theater and museum attendants. 

The drinking water part isn't bad at all.  What's worrisome is when my supply runs low and the chance to refill is not imminent.  I moderate, saving those last few sips for when they're desperately needed, and I feel my energy drain in those circumstances.  It becomes a bit panicky, actually.  I can become light-headed and clammy very quickly. 

As a result of nausea, acid reflux, and my full-time task of sipping water, I burp loudly and frequently, with carefree abandon.  It feels so good, I won't be apologizing for it.  So fair warning:  I am the wild and crazy burping girl. 

During the extreme heat, I only made it to a pool one day, when Barb invited me on a Sunday afternoon.  My water bottle warmed quickly, but Barb kept me quenched with iced green tea (or green iced tea?).  We lounged in the built-in seats in her gorgeous new pool.  Refreshing, but not as refreshing as tea with ice.  Would I ever use a pool, or do I just need my water on the inside?  Hard to say, but I can tell you I am relieved to be tabling the pool issue until next summer. 

In the meantime, I've finished the 20-ounce bottle I started sipping at the beginning of this post.  Burp.  Now it's time for a refill.  I had my third treatment of the second group today (6th treatment since beginning on June 15), and so I am flushing.  Literally, figuratively, you name it.  Water.  Burp.  Flush.  Flush, chemo, flush.  And don't bother me for the next two weeks.  Pretty please!

Ding Ding, Round Two

I think I'm starting to get a handle on things, mentally and physically.  Before, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to anything.  It was one horrifying experience or thought after another, with very little relief.  Getting diagnosed the way I did threw everything into tumult.  Suddenly I was a patient again, on chemo again, and that took a backseat to the morbidity that ensued.  And then time, which has its way of healing any tortured soul, moves on and life begins to make sense again in its new way.

Now I know that if I drink 40 ounces of water during the first hour I'm awake, I won't be nauseous.  I need to sleep most of the day on Friday.  On Thursday food doesn't taste good, but I can run errands.  It's not much, but it provides a system of planning for me.  In yoga I've learned that I can make my breathing the center of my attention, and there's no space left for any other thought.  I don't cry nearly so much anymore.  I don't have any more answers, but I'm starting to accept that I'll do the best I can with the time I have left, and that's really all I can do.  Strangely, despite my new lifestyle, which includes a lovely port protruding from my chest, life isn't really all that different day to day.  I still shower and dress and spend time with my kids.  I drive my car, go to the market, cross items off my to-do list.  We still laugh during family dinners and the kids still fight or get along.  I have to get school supplies and fill out the band camp forms and make sure Jonah has bus snacks.  This is still my life, mundane and comforting. 

I'm not a ghost.  When I sign my name and write the date, it's not the last signature, nor the last date.  I'm here, and it's good to be here.

3:04 am

That's what time it says on the cable clock.  I fell asleep at 11:30, and woke up at 12:20.  Nausea will do that.  Nausea has become my alarm clock, and it's not as precise or consistent as, say, a rooster.  So here I sit, after watching Bill Maher and a cable movie, after about eight rounds of Sudoku on my Kindle, finally posting an update.  And lucky you, it's about nausea. 

How odd is it that this chemo I'm taking does not cause nausea, but the cancer I have does.  One point for cancer.  I should keep a tally.  Chemo:  why I don't get mosquito bites this summer.  Cancer:  why I've lost 6 pounds and can't seem to get them back.  Chemo, cancer -- one poisons me, one kills me.  A dichotomy, at last (I've always wanted to use that word in this blog).

I did not have chemo last Wednesday, so I assumed I'd feel pretty good by now.  So stupid to have forgotten that cancer doesn't feel wonderful, either.  It's 3:14 am, but Wawa and CVS are open if I must have ginger ale.  Ken fell asleep on the sofa, so I'd have to sneak past him.  He tries to do everything for me, and I do not want him to do this.  I can make it to CVS and let the poor guy sleep. 

Man, I have big plans for tomorrow, too:  I need to get to the Verizon store, and to Whole Foods.  Allison's safely ensconced in North Carolina and Jonah will be at daycamp.  Lunch at Whole Foods is part of the agenda with Jason, who loves their pizza.  Will we make it to Whole Foods?  Must cancer muscle its way into every plan I make for the rest of my life?  I'm not being dramatic. 

*  I wonder:  Will I be able to teach first grade this fall?  I have a contract to teach first grade until Thanksgiving, but at this point I'd give it a 30% chance of happening.  First, the principal has to allow me a half day off most Wednesdays for chemo.  Second, I have to be able to regularly summon the energy not only to get out of bed, but to TEACH FIRST GRADE.  Third, my immune system has to remain strong enough for my oncologist to clear it. 
*  I wonder:  Will we make it onto our planned and paid for cruise in December?  Can it revolve around a chemo treatment?  Will I go parasailing with a bald head?  Will I choose to be photographed for formal night?  Will I ever get out of the cabin, or have the energy to explore the ship?  Which will be winning in December:  chemo or cancer? 

Nausea.  It's not terrible at the moment.  I bet I could sleep.  My eyes are on the prize:  the Verizon store, and Whole Foods with Jason.