For starters, the title of the post is all wrong. It really isn't about tomorrow even if it is really nice not to be going to chemo for the first time in thirteen Tuesdays.
What it is all about is Wednesday. The day eight without chemo. I don't know (because I still can't bring myself to read any guide to cancer) what's in store, but it seems like Wednesday is the beginning of the end of the chemo side effects.
One of the fellows referred to me as a low side effect kindof girl. I liked the observation and she is right. I really haven't had it so bad. But it still hasn't been pretty.
From the chemo drugs: the low blood count. Which wouldn't mean much to me but for the fact that the fatigue it creates is like nothing I've ever experienced before.
From the blood count drugs: the back pain has continued. Two or three days a week I have deep, sometimes naroctic-requiring, lower back pain. Again, think back labor.
From the taxol: my nails, which held up for so long, ache and throb. A few of them look like they are going to go.
From the taxol: the hand and foot tingling. I've only really had it in my feet but it has grown progressively worse. For the past month or so, my feet have felt like they are falling asleep. But always. As in all the time. It is maddening. I'm constantly stretching them trying to wake them up. Apparently, this isn't always a permanent thing.
From all the chemo drgus: the hair loss. Its actually already started growing back. I've noticed a few eye lashes the other day. I've got wispy blonde hair coming back in. Not exactly ready for prime time but enough to give you some hope. And I promised Miles my hair would start growing back this summer. I wouldn't mind delivering on that promise early.
From the steriods: the swelling. I'm sure its a falsehood, but I've been happily assuming that my extra fifteen pounds is all due to the steriods (not the laziness or less than careful consumption). Even if that doesn't pan out, the puffy hands, feet and face are surely related to the steriods.
So, tomorrow is the first Tuesday since March without chemo. Wednesday is the beginning of the symptom fade.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Woot Woot
I'm done. D.O.N.E. Done.
It's funny. I don't feel particularly anything about it. I feel calm. Quiet. Reflective. Proud. Cautiously optimistic.
Ready to have the chemo out of my system. My blood counts were low again. Even with the shots I'm administering, my energy is really low. I slept the afternoon away to try and recover from treatment. Once again, I am supposed to avoid any activities or people who could expose me to anything.
I am not ready to turn to what comes next. I'm ready for a little cancer-cation.
It's funny. I don't feel particularly anything about it. I feel calm. Quiet. Reflective. Proud. Cautiously optimistic.
Ready to have the chemo out of my system. My blood counts were low again. Even with the shots I'm administering, my energy is really low. I slept the afternoon away to try and recover from treatment. Once again, I am supposed to avoid any activities or people who could expose me to anything.
I am not ready to turn to what comes next. I'm ready for a little cancer-cation.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
And then there was one
I joked with one of the chemo nurses today that I'd put in my own IV. Doesn't that just tell you something about my life. IV jokes.
The long and short of the joke was after several nurse-led tutorials, I'm an old pro at my white blood cell booster injections. I would note that the first shot required a glass of wine to steel my nerves, which was quite helpful but not technically part of their training program.
December 10, 2013 to May 13, 2014. It really isn't a long time. But the pacing has varied. The first eight weeks of the AC treatment went quickly. Treatment and chemo eclipse one week. Feeling good the next. The twelve weeks of T plus C. Like watching the clock on Christmas morning. It just wouldn't move.
We accomplished a lot in five months. We also forfeited a lot. I'd say - and Jim is sleeping so I can't confirm with him- that it was also five months of intense learning. About our families - who have been incredible and unwavering in their support, love and commitment to our return to health. About our friends - who've propped us up, distracted us and cared for us. About ourselves - who we are as people, as a couple, what we want our family to be. What we will teach our children about what matters in life. I have learned a lot about myself and I made some personal adjustments too. For example, I have learned to be more open. And I am more certain of myself and of the identity I want our family and our children to have. We will not just be takers. I do not know how yet, but it is important to me that we become a family that is more giving of its time and good fortune. I have benefitted from what others have gone out of their way to do for me and I want us to know the answer to what are we doing for others.
Today at infusion, the nurses had a party for a volunteer who put in 2000 hours in the past year. That is the equivalent of a full time job. She brings warm blankets, she talks to all the patients, she brings lunch, she finds whatever you need. She has been there every treatment session I had. She knows me now. Tells me about her home, her plans, her Mother's Day. Knows I'm the only one who eats the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. Doing for others. Making a difference.
Eleven done. One to go. Even during treatment today when I was addled with the jumbo Benadryl dose, I was giddy. So close. So close. So close.
I'm sure surgery will be difficult but I don't care. Two weeks of physical discomfort? Sounds better than sixteen weeks of a deteriorating chemo mind game.
What else?
Miles misses Dani. Zaira seems great. Ian wants to walk. He appears to have a few words. Up. All done. Dada. Traitor.
Unexpected given that I'm still getting taxol, but my hair is starting to grow back. Peach fuzz, but still. Miles asked me why I had a boys hair cut. On a similar gender-focused note, we solved the "why miles won't eat grilled cheese" mystery. "It's not for boys" he told me one day. Ah, the importance of enunciation. One not girls, GRilled cheese later, he loves them.
Huge game for the Wizards tonight.
The long and short of the joke was after several nurse-led tutorials, I'm an old pro at my white blood cell booster injections. I would note that the first shot required a glass of wine to steel my nerves, which was quite helpful but not technically part of their training program.
December 10, 2013 to May 13, 2014. It really isn't a long time. But the pacing has varied. The first eight weeks of the AC treatment went quickly. Treatment and chemo eclipse one week. Feeling good the next. The twelve weeks of T plus C. Like watching the clock on Christmas morning. It just wouldn't move.
We accomplished a lot in five months. We also forfeited a lot. I'd say - and Jim is sleeping so I can't confirm with him- that it was also five months of intense learning. About our families - who have been incredible and unwavering in their support, love and commitment to our return to health. About our friends - who've propped us up, distracted us and cared for us. About ourselves - who we are as people, as a couple, what we want our family to be. What we will teach our children about what matters in life. I have learned a lot about myself and I made some personal adjustments too. For example, I have learned to be more open. And I am more certain of myself and of the identity I want our family and our children to have. We will not just be takers. I do not know how yet, but it is important to me that we become a family that is more giving of its time and good fortune. I have benefitted from what others have gone out of their way to do for me and I want us to know the answer to what are we doing for others.
Today at infusion, the nurses had a party for a volunteer who put in 2000 hours in the past year. That is the equivalent of a full time job. She brings warm blankets, she talks to all the patients, she brings lunch, she finds whatever you need. She has been there every treatment session I had. She knows me now. Tells me about her home, her plans, her Mother's Day. Knows I'm the only one who eats the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. Doing for others. Making a difference.
Eleven done. One to go. Even during treatment today when I was addled with the jumbo Benadryl dose, I was giddy. So close. So close. So close.
I'm sure surgery will be difficult but I don't care. Two weeks of physical discomfort? Sounds better than sixteen weeks of a deteriorating chemo mind game.
What else?
Miles misses Dani. Zaira seems great. Ian wants to walk. He appears to have a few words. Up. All done. Dada. Traitor.
Unexpected given that I'm still getting taxol, but my hair is starting to grow back. Peach fuzz, but still. Miles asked me why I had a boys hair cut. On a similar gender-focused note, we solved the "why miles won't eat grilled cheese" mystery. "It's not for boys" he told me one day. Ah, the importance of enunciation. One not girls, GRilled cheese later, he loves them.
Huge game for the Wizards tonight.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Getaway but not from it all
I remember the first time I went out without Miles. I was a plump postpartum mess. Sweaty with nerves and fears of all the things that could go wrong. No matter that I was leaving him with Jim and just going to a movie with some girlfriends. On the way to the movie, an intuitive friend realized this was first time I'd left Miles, and clucked over me and how brave I was and how fine he'd be. She was right, of course. But this pattern repeated itself the first time I left him overnight for a girls' weekend getaway.
This weekend, I started from a better spot. A little bit wiser and a more seasoned mother of two. On Saturday morning, I kissed Miles and Ian and was waiting by the door for Jim. I hustled him to the car and on our way.
Blue skies. Perfect temperature. Lattes and open road. But if you are reading this and you have cancer and you are heading out for your first trip away with your spouse, let me tell you, it won't be the trip you thought it would be. At least mine wasn't.
I'm not sure exactly why. Maybe it is because you forget, or I did, that these little junkets are how the whole thing starts. Two people who have interests, chemisty and curiosity in common. Getting to know each other. Taking little trips (in our case, to New York City after we'd known each other for about eight minutes). Talking, talking, talking. Figuring out that together the possibilities are limitless. And thats how, a few years later, life finds you married, happy, busy with jobs, mortgages, nanny-shares and sweet little bunnies who wipe their runny noses on you and you don't mind.
And then you are back in the car again. Road trip. Talking, talking, talking. But instead of which foreign city would you want to live it, it was all of the potential limited possibilities. What would Jim do: about school for the boys? about the house? about childcare? What would I do: to maximize the time? to make sure the boys knew me or had something of me? Just hashing and crying through the life without wife logistics.
Jim thinks, and he is usually right about these things, that it is the mental angst of December creeping back in again. We understand this phase of the process (chemo, surgery, radiation) but now we look ahead to the awful unknowing. Is it gone? Is it back? Did we beat it? Do we repeat it? Grief anew.
On the whole, the weekend was lovely. It is just that some aspects of our lives are a little too sad to consider and without the hectic mess of our lives, without the demands of the kids and jobs, with the time to talk and think and be together, it can be a bit overwhelming.
An example. Massages Sunday morning. Sounds lovely but after the massage, Jim complained that it was too long. Too much quiet time to think. I managed to distract myself, though I cried through a bit of mine, too.
Two funny moments from the weekend. Well, first, it really was lovely. It was a very pretty setting and a nice hotel. I am so grateful to have had the time to get away together and we did have a really nice time. We talked about other trips we had taken and reminded each other of favorite meals, hotels, rooms and funny moments along the way. The size and spector of Istanbul. The hang-gliding. The soda on the mountainside with bougenvilla. The restaruant and pool in Daliyan. The rooftop in Marrakesh. See, despite our grief, we still know how to have a good time. We lazed and read at the pool. We had cocktails and a cheese plate by the Miles' river. We had a bubble bath. We biked to dinner. We tucked into a spot for dessert. We puttered around and explored town. We got massages. We had breakfast in the sun by the water. We read the Sunday paper.
To the funny moments. First, Jim capped off our big weekend out of town with a big Saturday night watching Cspan. For real. I went to bed and he stay up watching the last few minutes of the White House Correspondents' Dinner and then spent another chunk of time watching the guests file out of the Washington Hilton like it was red carpet oscar action. Isn't that Madeleine Albright? Did you see Sofia Verga? Who is with Barbara Walters. Big night without the kids:)
Second, a different kind of funny. On the spa services form, it wanted to know all sorts of stuff that apparently would help them deliver exceptional treatments. I was debating whether I needed to or should disclose that I had cancer (which would I'm sure have lead to an uncomfortable and irrelevant conversation with a complete stranger) when I noticed that two boxes down on the form was nail fungus. I mean, seriously, are these conditions comparable in anyone's world? I laughed, ignored it all and just signed the form. The bald head and the skin might have suggested that I wasn't totally forthcoming but no one bothered to mention it.
This weekend, I started from a better spot. A little bit wiser and a more seasoned mother of two. On Saturday morning, I kissed Miles and Ian and was waiting by the door for Jim. I hustled him to the car and on our way.
Blue skies. Perfect temperature. Lattes and open road. But if you are reading this and you have cancer and you are heading out for your first trip away with your spouse, let me tell you, it won't be the trip you thought it would be. At least mine wasn't.
I'm not sure exactly why. Maybe it is because you forget, or I did, that these little junkets are how the whole thing starts. Two people who have interests, chemisty and curiosity in common. Getting to know each other. Taking little trips (in our case, to New York City after we'd known each other for about eight minutes). Talking, talking, talking. Figuring out that together the possibilities are limitless. And thats how, a few years later, life finds you married, happy, busy with jobs, mortgages, nanny-shares and sweet little bunnies who wipe their runny noses on you and you don't mind.
And then you are back in the car again. Road trip. Talking, talking, talking. But instead of which foreign city would you want to live it, it was all of the potential limited possibilities. What would Jim do: about school for the boys? about the house? about childcare? What would I do: to maximize the time? to make sure the boys knew me or had something of me? Just hashing and crying through the life without wife logistics.
Jim thinks, and he is usually right about these things, that it is the mental angst of December creeping back in again. We understand this phase of the process (chemo, surgery, radiation) but now we look ahead to the awful unknowing. Is it gone? Is it back? Did we beat it? Do we repeat it? Grief anew.
On the whole, the weekend was lovely. It is just that some aspects of our lives are a little too sad to consider and without the hectic mess of our lives, without the demands of the kids and jobs, with the time to talk and think and be together, it can be a bit overwhelming.
An example. Massages Sunday morning. Sounds lovely but after the massage, Jim complained that it was too long. Too much quiet time to think. I managed to distract myself, though I cried through a bit of mine, too.
Two funny moments from the weekend. Well, first, it really was lovely. It was a very pretty setting and a nice hotel. I am so grateful to have had the time to get away together and we did have a really nice time. We talked about other trips we had taken and reminded each other of favorite meals, hotels, rooms and funny moments along the way. The size and spector of Istanbul. The hang-gliding. The soda on the mountainside with bougenvilla. The restaruant and pool in Daliyan. The rooftop in Marrakesh. See, despite our grief, we still know how to have a good time. We lazed and read at the pool. We had cocktails and a cheese plate by the Miles' river. We had a bubble bath. We biked to dinner. We tucked into a spot for dessert. We puttered around and explored town. We got massages. We had breakfast in the sun by the water. We read the Sunday paper.
To the funny moments. First, Jim capped off our big weekend out of town with a big Saturday night watching Cspan. For real. I went to bed and he stay up watching the last few minutes of the White House Correspondents' Dinner and then spent another chunk of time watching the guests file out of the Washington Hilton like it was red carpet oscar action. Isn't that Madeleine Albright? Did you see Sofia Verga? Who is with Barbara Walters. Big night without the kids:)
Second, a different kind of funny. On the spa services form, it wanted to know all sorts of stuff that apparently would help them deliver exceptional treatments. I was debating whether I needed to or should disclose that I had cancer (which would I'm sure have lead to an uncomfortable and irrelevant conversation with a complete stranger) when I noticed that two boxes down on the form was nail fungus. I mean, seriously, are these conditions comparable in anyone's world? I laughed, ignored it all and just signed the form. The bald head and the skin might have suggested that I wasn't totally forthcoming but no one bothered to mention it.
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