Number six

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

Okay – here we go, treatment six. Any takers on whether or not I keep my cool (keeping cool, aka not vomiting)?  After last week’s experience at the hospital maybe that ‘exposure therapy’ will make a difference. Actually I’m optimistic.


This week I’ve got fresh blood, and rest, and  . . . hope?

Zsolt was reading that people’s number one fear with chemotherapy is nausea. I totally agree. Last treatment was my first without any nausea – and every moment for the following few days I waited to feel that lurch in my stomach. Wait, wait, wait. Didn’t happen.

Today I’ll wait again, with a little more hope that it won’t happen.

Things we’ll bring to the chemo ward:

My new toque (hat, beanine)

Eat Pray Love (I’m enjoy this book – though the chemo makes me tired, so maybe I won’t get around to reading today)

Mp3 player (only to drown out chemo conversations I don’t want to hear: “oh yeah, I was sick as a dog last week . . .” etc)

Blanket

Orange slices

Water

Patience

Last chemo I was so tired afterwards the only thing I could do was sleep. Even as the treatment progressed I become more and more desperate to drift away. It was something like a long flight – I can never sleep on those planes, but oh, do I ever fantasize about my bed. Same with the chemo chair, comfortable enough (for a chemo chair) but not my bed.

Anyhow – here we go again. Fresh blood. Rest. Hope. And no getting sick. No getting sick.

Fingers crossed. 🙂

Another question I need to ask myself: Having now missed two treatments, should I lose those chemo sessions or have them? Frankly – I don’t want them. But how will my overall success be impacted by missing treatment? One doctor said that I shouldn’t miss any. Another doctor (or was she the head nurse?) said that people often stop about 10/11 treatments because of the side effects. Who can I talk to in order to clear up this confusion? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Zsolt isn’t happy with my missing 2 treatments. One was fine, two makes him uncomfortable.

What the heck am I supposed to do, and how can I make an educated decision?

Feeling better today

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

Whew! It felt good to write that last post.

Today I’m feeling better. It’s my first day back at work since the hospital, and I DON’T feel exhausted for a change. Also, Zsolt and I bought all kinds of ready-made meals today, and I think that will be a great help over the next week or so.

Writing about my feelings was a release. I slept soundly last night, despite a difficult day. I think it’s the sharing that made the difference. Just admitting how I felt was very good. Like someone released the pressure in my head. Hey, wait a second, that was me. I released the pressure in my head. Like an overblown balloon getting some relief.

Anyhow. I just wanted to say thank you for your good thoughts and prayers and kind words. They’re very helpful – and sometimes all I need is a kind word. So thanks, thanks and very much thanks.

Alligator tears

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

I find it hard to stop crying. My eyelashes adher in salty clumps from all the tears. And it’s always for the same reason: I’m just so fucking overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed by my exhaustion. Overwhelmed by all the effort. Overwhelmed by my body’s reactions. Overwhelmed that this isn’t over. Overwhelmed to be so far from home. Overwhelmed that responsibility and hunger and housekeeping don’t stop even when I so desperately want them to all go away and not come back for at least three months, maybe four.

I don’t know if it’s the chemotherapy drugs having an effect on my mood, or if it’s simply my mood. I don’t know if it’s my diagnosis, or the never-ending worry, or the uncertainty that clouds my future like some ugly fog threatening in the distance, rolling toward my fucking life. My livelihood. My life.

So I cry. What else is there to do? I cry and cry and find some relief in the act.

One day things will be better and this will stop. I know that because sometimes there are moments – glimpses of normal – like Frisbee in the park, tea with friends, chatting at work, Sundays in bed. Sooner than later I’ll stop crying.

Sometimes it’s so hard to look forward. But forward is the only place to go, the only way I can survive. Forward is inevitable, though getting there has been a struggle.

Two months left of chemotherapy, maybe a little bit more. One month of radio-therapy. Five years of medication. Cancer had better stay away from me, because I’m tired of its company.

And in the meanwhile I’ll just cry a little, because it helps. Because I can’t stop. Sooner than later this will be over. I look forward, when I can look forward, to that time.