Some days I have much to write, and then I get home and fall asleep. Some days I forget I have a blog, or a computer. Not in a literal sense. I get too overwhelmed by the failings of my body to write. And then I fall asleep. Sometimes I lie in my bed and instead of sleeping, I concentrate on all the foods of the world, and what my body might possibly consider tolerating. The answer always seems to macaroni and cheese, which I don't actually tolerate well at all. Which I know, so I give up and fall asleep. I wonder why last week my legs would move without pain, and this week they're resistant to it. It's easier if I just sleep.
Last night I went downstairs to dinner. Chinese food, which I tolerated in small servings. For the first time in a long time we were together, a family of five. Allison said I came down to milk the cancer attention. Sure, like I wouldn't have come down all those other nights, too, for that. Jonah figured that if I made it to the kitchen I was feeling normal and could do everything for him, like normal. Jason and Ken treated me like a guest. And when Ken and I disagreed about something minor, I realized he's been the solo person in charge for so long, he's not used to my voice in his ear anymore. Maybe I'm not a ghost, but I'm not as substantial as I was.
I worry so much now about whether I will ever get to be substantial again. I can't deal with anything. I forgot Jason's orthodontist appointment. It's not chemo brain, it's exhaustion. When I'm at work my brain works okay. Which means I can finally blog as an awake person. I'm a little optimistic for today, actually. My legs hurt less, and I ate with no trouble. I do see Dr. Fox on Friday. Finally. I haven't seen him since August 30, and considering I'm counting on him to save my life, that seems too long. I'll try to update soon, if I can stay awake.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
A Far Distance to Go in Three Days
That hurricane was a dud for us, as I hope it was for you. We sat up late, anticipating every disaster on the forecasts, and ended up hiding in the basement for awhile, kind of like a campout. We finally went to sleep, wondering what kind of earth we'd awaken to find on Sunday.
The world was surprisingly calm on Sunday morning. But not my stomach. Oh no. Sicksleep went into double mode, probably because I'd had the audacity to keep chemo from stealing Saturday. I would pay that price dearly. Sunday and Monday were horrible days I hope never to repeat, so bad that by Tuesday I needed to head to Penn for IV drip to stave off dehydration. Mercifully, they also added Ativan, which is a nausea reliever as well as a sedative. The Ativan did its work well. However, just before I passed into oblivion, Dr. Fox and Lorelei came to visit. I tried so hard to focus on what they said. I could understand the words, but not what Dr. Fox was trying to tell me. I kept repeating, "Well, that's good, right? That's good?" And Dr. Fox wasn't specifically answering that, but instead telling me more. I suppose he's used to talking to a functional brain, and I didn't have one at that moment. At the end, this is what I finally understood:
The first time I had my CT scan, on June 12, the cancer was so involved in my liver, and my surrounding lymph nodes were so swollen with it, the contrast dye could not seep past it to fill the remainder of my abdomen. Therefore, that scan did not show a complete picture. Now, my lymph nodes are significantly shrunk, as are the tumors, so the contrast had no trouble reaching all areas of my abdomen. Obviously this is a huge positive result, and yes drugged Michelle, that's good, right. Dr. Fox just wanted to let me know that he now wants another CT scan in a month, so he can compare two complete scans. All I wanted to know was whether I could still switch to oral chemo, or if I would be forced to endure Ixabepillone for another cycle. Somehow I failed to get that answer.
The hydrated and improved me/I was going to return to Penn on Wednesday for my scheduled appointment, but it seemed foolish when I had just seen Dr. Fox the previous day. I talked to the scheduler about it, and we agreed. She left a message for Lorelei, who sounded exhausted when she reached me hours later. Not only that, but Lorelei was also unclear about the chemo switch. She would need to discuss it with Dr. Fox the next morning. Which was when I posted to Facebook that I would update the next evening. Unfortunately, somehow I missed Lorelei's Thursday message, and had nothing to report last night.
I finally got the news from a nurse this afternoon, just as my father and Libby were entering my house, fresh from Florida. The nurse told me, drum roll, I AM switching to oral chemo! The prescription is ready to be filled, but I should not fill it until next week when I talk to Lorelei. I will take it 7 days, and then skip it 7 days. I don't return to Penn until later this month. Thank goodness! This is not just about the chemo, either. I've been in the classroom much of this week, and I can't express how excited I am about this new school year, and new 6-year-olds. This chemo allows me that side of my life. It returns my weekends to me, my life, my choices.
So many people pray for me, it's extremely humbling. I have to believe that all these prayers are floating along the right passages to make a positive difference. You're all so filled with love and kindness, with such generous spirits, your prayers may be riding on a faster wave. I'm lucky to have you on my side. So extremely lucky.
The world was surprisingly calm on Sunday morning. But not my stomach. Oh no. Sicksleep went into double mode, probably because I'd had the audacity to keep chemo from stealing Saturday. I would pay that price dearly. Sunday and Monday were horrible days I hope never to repeat, so bad that by Tuesday I needed to head to Penn for IV drip to stave off dehydration. Mercifully, they also added Ativan, which is a nausea reliever as well as a sedative. The Ativan did its work well. However, just before I passed into oblivion, Dr. Fox and Lorelei came to visit. I tried so hard to focus on what they said. I could understand the words, but not what Dr. Fox was trying to tell me. I kept repeating, "Well, that's good, right? That's good?" And Dr. Fox wasn't specifically answering that, but instead telling me more. I suppose he's used to talking to a functional brain, and I didn't have one at that moment. At the end, this is what I finally understood:
The first time I had my CT scan, on June 12, the cancer was so involved in my liver, and my surrounding lymph nodes were so swollen with it, the contrast dye could not seep past it to fill the remainder of my abdomen. Therefore, that scan did not show a complete picture. Now, my lymph nodes are significantly shrunk, as are the tumors, so the contrast had no trouble reaching all areas of my abdomen. Obviously this is a huge positive result, and yes drugged Michelle, that's good, right. Dr. Fox just wanted to let me know that he now wants another CT scan in a month, so he can compare two complete scans. All I wanted to know was whether I could still switch to oral chemo, or if I would be forced to endure Ixabepillone for another cycle. Somehow I failed to get that answer.
The hydrated and improved me/I was going to return to Penn on Wednesday for my scheduled appointment, but it seemed foolish when I had just seen Dr. Fox the previous day. I talked to the scheduler about it, and we agreed. She left a message for Lorelei, who sounded exhausted when she reached me hours later. Not only that, but Lorelei was also unclear about the chemo switch. She would need to discuss it with Dr. Fox the next morning. Which was when I posted to Facebook that I would update the next evening. Unfortunately, somehow I missed Lorelei's Thursday message, and had nothing to report last night.
I finally got the news from a nurse this afternoon, just as my father and Libby were entering my house, fresh from Florida. The nurse told me, drum roll, I AM switching to oral chemo! The prescription is ready to be filled, but I should not fill it until next week when I talk to Lorelei. I will take it 7 days, and then skip it 7 days. I don't return to Penn until later this month. Thank goodness! This is not just about the chemo, either. I've been in the classroom much of this week, and I can't express how excited I am about this new school year, and new 6-year-olds. This chemo allows me that side of my life. It returns my weekends to me, my life, my choices.
So many people pray for me, it's extremely humbling. I have to believe that all these prayers are floating along the right passages to make a positive difference. You're all so filled with love and kindness, with such generous spirits, your prayers may be riding on a faster wave. I'm lucky to have you on my side. So extremely lucky.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
A Sicksleep Outing
According to my datebook, it's only been a week that I've been referring to my weekends as sicksleep. It feels like the term had to be part of my vocabulary far longer. Yesterday, like clockwork, I slept from the moment I returned from my fateful CT scan (not that I know my fate, only that the test will prove fateful). I had some ritz crackers yesterday, and otherwise slept without dreaming. Overnight, however, a shift. Dreams, which normally do not inhabit my sicksleep. Weird dreams with all types of strange transportation. No reason to bore you with the details. With enough phone ringing, however, I woke up more than 20% of the way before noon. I couldn't fall back to sleep, and read a magazine (to my blog follower who can relay this message, SMG looks damn good in EW this week). I made it all the way to the basement and brought up the baby books, need to keep them safe from Irene. I ate cereal. And still stayed awake. So when Ken mentioned going in search of D batteries, I was still awake, and agreed to tag along!
That's right. I left the house during sicksleep for the first time in weeks. And in the rain, which I think helped. We went a few different places, to no avail. No Ds, no Cs, and of course, no flashlights. Not sure what type of Irenaggedon (sorry, I've been watching a lot of The Daily Show lately) we're expecting, but we may just lose a couple pivotal letters. One of which is for cookie, which is always good enough for me, and would result in the saddest loss.
I'm still a nut driving a scooter. I'm really good at it, and most scooter drivers out there are, um, not. For me, it's fun sport, though, and while walking would be preferable, scooters turn on a 0-degree radius, which is an awesome trick in the toothpaste aisle. Unfortunately, I'm not making THAT great of an impression with my inability to walk all the way through Target or Lowe's or the market. I can stand to reach the high shelves, of course. I can walk a few steps away to scan groceries. People must wonder why the heck I need a scooter. Or I imagine this as I want to answer unasked questions by shouting that I have no energy and am lucky to be out during sicksleep. There are so many days I never make it beyond my bedroom door, or when a trip to the bathroom requires significant planning. Today I made it out of the house, and I am kind of proud of that.
Dr. Fox sort of backpedaled on Wednesday about switching me to the chemo pill, so clearly quite a lot is riding on my CT scan. I may have more sicksleeps in store. I may have more days in my cushioned, king-sized square, or I may have more outings involving a scooter. I'll take the scooter over the bed if I have the choice, so if you see me out and not quite independently mobile, be glad for me!
That's right. I left the house during sicksleep for the first time in weeks. And in the rain, which I think helped. We went a few different places, to no avail. No Ds, no Cs, and of course, no flashlights. Not sure what type of Irenaggedon (sorry, I've been watching a lot of The Daily Show lately) we're expecting, but we may just lose a couple pivotal letters. One of which is for cookie, which is always good enough for me, and would result in the saddest loss.
I'm still a nut driving a scooter. I'm really good at it, and most scooter drivers out there are, um, not. For me, it's fun sport, though, and while walking would be preferable, scooters turn on a 0-degree radius, which is an awesome trick in the toothpaste aisle. Unfortunately, I'm not making THAT great of an impression with my inability to walk all the way through Target or Lowe's or the market. I can stand to reach the high shelves, of course. I can walk a few steps away to scan groceries. People must wonder why the heck I need a scooter. Or I imagine this as I want to answer unasked questions by shouting that I have no energy and am lucky to be out during sicksleep. There are so many days I never make it beyond my bedroom door, or when a trip to the bathroom requires significant planning. Today I made it out of the house, and I am kind of proud of that.
Dr. Fox sort of backpedaled on Wednesday about switching me to the chemo pill, so clearly quite a lot is riding on my CT scan. I may have more sicksleeps in store. I may have more days in my cushioned, king-sized square, or I may have more outings involving a scooter. I'll take the scooter over the bed if I have the choice, so if you see me out and not quite independently mobile, be glad for me!
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Why My Summer Vacation Report is Late, and Why I Should Still Get an A
I'm a procrastinator, but I'm not a complainer. On the surface, the two traits seem completely unrelated, so I will relate them for you. I did not procrastinate writing in this blog, I simply had so little to say that would not sound like a complaint, I couldn't bear to type anything. I abhor complaining, frankly. If you're in my life, you either do not do it much, or you're my mother. Now, with actual potential on the horizon, I feel freer to let loose and share the shit. And then I can get to the good part :)
The truth is, life like this sucks. Ixebipillone or however you spell this chemo drug's name is horrible, creepy stuff. It starts off fine, and then it sneaks into your cells and bones and brain. With happy prednisone to counteract its ill effects, this chemo bestows a slow and deceptive descent. However, the prednisone vanishes, fewer pills to take each cycle, and insidious Ixebipilone roars forward into my veins and steals my life. The last few weeks have been increasingly miserable. It begins with a frustrating five hours a week in the chemo suite. The actual chemo drip is three hours, but there's always a long delay getting up to the suite from the pharmacy. By late the next day I can't eat, I have to eat, I stare at the refrigerator, everything inside smells terrible. I want to retch, as always, but it's useless, as always. My drip is on Wednesday, when I feel good. Thursday I decline ever so slightly. By Friday at noon I'm holed up somewhere in my house, completely incapacitated. It lasts and lasts. I see my visitors' belongings, but mostly I can never make my mouth move enough for a conversation and end up left alone with a view of a fancy purse. I can't sit up, therefore I can't use the computer. I drool, pass all kinds of gas. Feel tempted to drink less because going to the bathroom requires Herculean effort. I taste ... something. Something unkind, unwelcome, unidentifiable. My fingers and toes tingle, my feet freeze as the rest of my body perspires. Each week it lasts longer, takes over more of my days. Each week a new surprise. Like the hideous blood clot that passed from my sinus to my mouth on Sunday, that I coughed out onto my finger of all things. I started to ponder life with no quality of life, watching people I love grow increasingly nervous and sad. What's to be done about that?
Despite all this, I decided to go back to my first grade teaching position in September, blessed by the understanding principal who would let me take a half day off each week to go for chemo. It was insane to consider I could do it with just determination, so I was stockpiling other options to present to Dr. Fox today.
Armed with a complete cache of ammunition, I didn't kill myself or idiot drivers during my mad rush from New Teacher Orientation to Perelman's 3rd floor in 32 minutes, and it was with profound relief that I identified Jill sipping coffee in the waiting room. I should've taken it as a sign of things to come when I loudly announced to the somber waiting room, "Oh, my sister is here! I'm so happy my sister is here!" The phlebotomists are always informative. I could hang with them. Today, mine gave me lots of ideas for getting foood in on the bad days, which was helpful. Next stop, Lorelei the NP. I presented my litany of complaints and was prepared to ask for this med or that med or a blood transfusion to help me get more energy. Before I had the chance, Dr. Fox peeked in, and Lorelei excused herself to the hall to talk to him. She had already told me my blood and bilirubin counts continued to be at healthy levels.
Ten minutes later, an unsmiling Dr. Fox entered with two medical students and Lorelei. Was he worried, or being extra professional for the sake of the students? Lorelei had briefed him about my side effects, and he asked me to jump on the table for an exam. He felt all around my abdomen, then had the students do the same. I sat up as he presented my case history clinically for them, all facts included and correct. He reminded me that I would be having today's treatment and next week's, and then the CT scan a week later to determine the effectiveness of icky Ixabipillone. Yes, yes. "We really just need the scan to verify what we already know," Dr. Fox said. I gaped at him, holding my breath. "Obviously it's worked tremendously. That cancerous lymph node is gone, and everything looks and feels good. So I want to change your chemo." I breathed. This was turning into good news. It was just the beginning:
The new chemo is oral. I'll take my chemo pill each day, without side effects like nausea or exhaustion. My hair will stop falling out and what I've lost so far will grow back. I'll be able to be fully engaged in teaching first grade instead of figuring out how to make it tolerable. I'll feel just like me, with my real quality of life. I'll go on my cruise and dance badly. I won't need a wig. I'll set aside my handicapped placard. I'll visit Dr. Fox once a month for a blood draw and an update. I wanted to cry from the relief. I wasn't counting on an open window, or any sort of escape from prison. I just wanted out of solitary, and I was being handed my whole life. I was suddenly a non-evil, non-child killing Casey Anthony. I asked a few questions, the last among them whether I could hug him. So we hugged. Once Dr. Fox and his team were gone, the tears began to build as the full impact of chemo pill reached my taxed little brain. As I reentered the waiting room, realizing I was going to tell Ken and my mother and this blog this news, I started to bawl, making quite a spectacle of myself. A nurse came from the back, and I loudly announced to her and the nervous waiting room, "I'm so happy!" She gave me a hug, and then the receptionist came to join the party. Everyone was smiling.
I'm proud to have made a few people shed tears of joy over this news today. I'm back. I'm me. I'm going to get strong inside and out, feed my body the best foods on earth, and do whatever Dr. Fox wants me to do. Maybe my weird fortune cookie from last night didn't offer such an outlandish prediction: "You will live a long and heathy life." Just maybe.
The truth is, life like this sucks. Ixebipillone or however you spell this chemo drug's name is horrible, creepy stuff. It starts off fine, and then it sneaks into your cells and bones and brain. With happy prednisone to counteract its ill effects, this chemo bestows a slow and deceptive descent. However, the prednisone vanishes, fewer pills to take each cycle, and insidious Ixebipilone roars forward into my veins and steals my life. The last few weeks have been increasingly miserable. It begins with a frustrating five hours a week in the chemo suite. The actual chemo drip is three hours, but there's always a long delay getting up to the suite from the pharmacy. By late the next day I can't eat, I have to eat, I stare at the refrigerator, everything inside smells terrible. I want to retch, as always, but it's useless, as always. My drip is on Wednesday, when I feel good. Thursday I decline ever so slightly. By Friday at noon I'm holed up somewhere in my house, completely incapacitated. It lasts and lasts. I see my visitors' belongings, but mostly I can never make my mouth move enough for a conversation and end up left alone with a view of a fancy purse. I can't sit up, therefore I can't use the computer. I drool, pass all kinds of gas. Feel tempted to drink less because going to the bathroom requires Herculean effort. I taste ... something. Something unkind, unwelcome, unidentifiable. My fingers and toes tingle, my feet freeze as the rest of my body perspires. Each week it lasts longer, takes over more of my days. Each week a new surprise. Like the hideous blood clot that passed from my sinus to my mouth on Sunday, that I coughed out onto my finger of all things. I started to ponder life with no quality of life, watching people I love grow increasingly nervous and sad. What's to be done about that?
Despite all this, I decided to go back to my first grade teaching position in September, blessed by the understanding principal who would let me take a half day off each week to go for chemo. It was insane to consider I could do it with just determination, so I was stockpiling other options to present to Dr. Fox today.
Armed with a complete cache of ammunition, I didn't kill myself or idiot drivers during my mad rush from New Teacher Orientation to Perelman's 3rd floor in 32 minutes, and it was with profound relief that I identified Jill sipping coffee in the waiting room. I should've taken it as a sign of things to come when I loudly announced to the somber waiting room, "Oh, my sister is here! I'm so happy my sister is here!" The phlebotomists are always informative. I could hang with them. Today, mine gave me lots of ideas for getting foood in on the bad days, which was helpful. Next stop, Lorelei the NP. I presented my litany of complaints and was prepared to ask for this med or that med or a blood transfusion to help me get more energy. Before I had the chance, Dr. Fox peeked in, and Lorelei excused herself to the hall to talk to him. She had already told me my blood and bilirubin counts continued to be at healthy levels.
Ten minutes later, an unsmiling Dr. Fox entered with two medical students and Lorelei. Was he worried, or being extra professional for the sake of the students? Lorelei had briefed him about my side effects, and he asked me to jump on the table for an exam. He felt all around my abdomen, then had the students do the same. I sat up as he presented my case history clinically for them, all facts included and correct. He reminded me that I would be having today's treatment and next week's, and then the CT scan a week later to determine the effectiveness of icky Ixabipillone. Yes, yes. "We really just need the scan to verify what we already know," Dr. Fox said. I gaped at him, holding my breath. "Obviously it's worked tremendously. That cancerous lymph node is gone, and everything looks and feels good. So I want to change your chemo." I breathed. This was turning into good news. It was just the beginning:
The new chemo is oral. I'll take my chemo pill each day, without side effects like nausea or exhaustion. My hair will stop falling out and what I've lost so far will grow back. I'll be able to be fully engaged in teaching first grade instead of figuring out how to make it tolerable. I'll feel just like me, with my real quality of life. I'll go on my cruise and dance badly. I won't need a wig. I'll set aside my handicapped placard. I'll visit Dr. Fox once a month for a blood draw and an update. I wanted to cry from the relief. I wasn't counting on an open window, or any sort of escape from prison. I just wanted out of solitary, and I was being handed my whole life. I was suddenly a non-evil, non-child killing Casey Anthony. I asked a few questions, the last among them whether I could hug him. So we hugged. Once Dr. Fox and his team were gone, the tears began to build as the full impact of chemo pill reached my taxed little brain. As I reentered the waiting room, realizing I was going to tell Ken and my mother and this blog this news, I started to bawl, making quite a spectacle of myself. A nurse came from the back, and I loudly announced to her and the nervous waiting room, "I'm so happy!" She gave me a hug, and then the receptionist came to join the party. Everyone was smiling.
I'm proud to have made a few people shed tears of joy over this news today. I'm back. I'm me. I'm going to get strong inside and out, feed my body the best foods on earth, and do whatever Dr. Fox wants me to do. Maybe my weird fortune cookie from last night didn't offer such an outlandish prediction: "You will live a long and heathy life." Just maybe.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, July 22, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, July 11, 2011
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.
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.
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