Kindness is the realization of the humanity within each of us. Kindness is more than a selfless act or charity, it's an extraordinary act of faith - people who help people, with the sole merit of the act simply to make life better.
I've wanted to write about the extraordinary measures people are willing to go through when they find out I am ill. Attitudes change when the gravity of my situation is realized. Part of that is the drama of Cancer, the almost formalized seriousness that we believe we must have when first we hear someone has this disease. In my case I found out very quickly that support from family, friends, and coworkers was exemplified not only by an outpouring of sympathy, but by acts of kindness.
When I was first diagnosed and began informing those around me of my predicament I was amazed at the response. From the very beginning my close personal friends put their immediate concerns on hold to visit and support me. This pattern continued while I was in the Hospital - family and friends were there to make sure I was not alone. My recovery was helped by simple acts of kindness that made my life easier. Neighbors and friends who thoughtfully brought over gifts of food to ease the chores of simply living each day. Standing offers from friends and coworkers to provide transportation -any time, any place- gifts that are from the heart. Unable to do much physically while recovering from surgery a coworker took it upon himself to clean my gutters. He didn't ask permission, he did what he knew I could not.
Generous gifts, given to me to raise my spirits during my recovery: the MP3 player that I use on my daily walks, the music a reminder of friendship started while I was in University and still continues decades later. The Palm Pilot graciously donated by a fellow coworker when my ancient Palm began to fail. All my doctor appointments, my surgical visits, my meds, my chemo visits, my life-with-cancer is tracked by that device. Plus it can play chess, and best of all, MOVIES! These devices are more than just recreation and appointment calendars, they are a reminder of a time in my life when so many people helped me to continue my journey.
This past year I have seen many examples of kindness extended to me: from the neighbor who shovels out my snow-filled driveway when I can't do it due to chemo, to the neighbor who provides us with home-grown vegetables from his garden (well it's his son who has the green thumb!) All those who have traveled that incredibly boring stretch of highway known as the 401 to visit me. The phone calls from caring friends in countries far away. Emails of support, emails that link to gift certificates at Amazon, emails that let me reconnect with long-lost cousins. The generosity is not just for me, donations made on my behalf to the Cancer Centre extend that kindness to all Cancer patients.
I do not know if I can truly acknowledge all those who have come together to help me during this time. All I know is that so many wonderful people care about me that I am humbled, and eternally grateful. Your kindness has given me more than hope, it's given me reason to savor life.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XII
The best time to write a blog about Cancer is when you're not undergoing any treatment. When you write during the treatment, your heart and mood are locked into the current process. Life becomes How Can I Endure This Anymore? Writing becomes a challenge when coupled with the bleak winter weather, scant motivation to do anything physical and the always underlying worry if treatment is actually working.
If treatment is not working I'm going to have to register a complaint. Probably with myself as I'm the one who needs to make it work. I once wrote that I believe the technical means were at hand to defeat cancer and that I was the one to provide the resolve. In the past few months that resolve has if not exactly wavered, hasn't been the bedrock-solid foundation I need to build my hope upon.
January 11th, 2011 was the day my twelfth chemotherapy session. Prior to this last session my growing tiredness of the whole process was wearing me thin. I needed a break. Chemo #12 will be the last treatment for an unknown time. My Cancer plan calls for me to have a CT scan later in February. It's been a long haul of almost ten months, where my focus is on the Cancer Plan, the Cure and the resumption of life as I once knew it. I've completed my last chemotherapy treatment, and I feel uncertain of what the results will be, of what my life will become, of what path I need to follow.
For the two weeks prior to my 12th chemo I gradually resumed much of my normal activities. My appetite returned, my energy level increased as I resumed my daily walks. Motivation to complete two outstanding 'chemo clocks' prompted me to build my projects once more. I played a little chess, tried to study some programming, but mostly this period can be characterized by 'just tired of it all'. I watched a lot of movies and kept wondering what the 'last' chemo means to me. Am I done? Am I well? Will I regain my former life? And of course the question I always dread...will the Cancer return?
I know the answer to the last question, it's easy: If the Cancer returns I deal with it then. In the meantime, I just need to concentrate on the task at hand. For the present this means managing to get through the 12th chemo.
Chemo #12 started late at 11AM instead of the scheduled 1030 time. Once more I would be seated in chair #11. Once more I unbuttoned my shirt, unselfconsciously in a room full of strangers, so that my nurse could begin the chemo process. Once more I had a problem: the blood return failed. The blood return is an IVPort self-check, where the medical staff can observe if the Port is working correctly. As has often been the case for me of late, this turns out to be a hit-or-miss affair. The general strategy to resolve this problem is to cough, raise my arm on the side of port above my head, cough some more, and see what happens. When these strategies failed I was reclined in my chair til I was completely horizontal, and subsequent variations of this process were tried again.
Liquid Plumbr, chemo-style was the solution. A small tube of this magic liquid is linked to my port, and the inverted tube is then taped onto my shirt. This gives me some temporary freedom from the IV Pole! I can wander around for some 40 minutes, unhindered by my chemical tether. So I walk around the hospital getting some much-needed exercise, and more importantly, to walk off the frustrations I've had about this "last chemo".
Forty minutes later I'm back in the chair with the blood return fully functional. Now the the well-known process resumes: saline solution, followed by the chemo medicine proper. After the chemo drip will be my Avastin, followed by the 5FU flush, the precursor to the 5FU pump being attached to me one more time. During the waiting time I am restless, the internet is not working for the hospital and I am unable to connect up my email. I try to watch a movie, the classic "Inherit the Wind" with Spencer Tracy and Gene Kelly in a rare non-musical role. My shots to relieve my feelings of nausea are given, my body reacting exactly as it has the prior 11 times. I can do chemo in my sleep, if only I were able to sleep...still no internet and it's almost noon. I thank the food services staff for their offer of lunch, but I am too keyed up to eat. Still restless I stand, unable to pace however due to the constraints of my IV pole and my chemical tethers. I can't sit. I can't rest. I have no internet and I can no longer concentrate on my movie. I need to do something. At last I find that something: fixing the loose plates of the A/C outlets.
All the cover plates of the A/C outlets were loose, but not dangerously so. With the continual plugging and unplugging of IV Poles and personal electronics, this is bound to happen. Fortunately I have my Swiss-army-style knife with me, and the bottle-opener/flat screwdriver blade is perfect for the task at hand. Soon all the A/C cover plates within my limited range are securely fastened, and I feel like I've accomplished something useful. I don't think I've used a bottle opener in 30 years though, since the advent of the 'twist off' cap.
After an interminable time my chemo session was done for that day. Sometime around 3PM I get to go home. My 5FU bottle was secured to my port for hopefully the last time. I headed home, tired and worn out from the whole process.
With this second round of chemotherapy I have noticed that sleep the first night is difficult. I can't say why this is but the soreness of my chest is significant. The first night with the 5FU pump is my most difficult, I do not sleep deeply, I am constantly sore and unable to find a comfortable resting position. I am my most miserable during this time, and perhaps because it's the "last" chemo I feel more worn out rather than the elated feeling the accompanies one when a milestone has been reached. For the next several days I do nothing but rest, the couch and my bed are my best friends. I don't really sleep as not move. I get up for my meals but of course there's little appetite within me. The taste of water is unappealing, but juices help. I need to keep fluids in me but it really is a losing battle this time. I spend the second day in my PJ's not even bothering to do more than the basic obligations. I am really tired and I just want to do nothing. Just rest, that's all. I deserve that opportunity not do anything don't I?
When I started my chemo on Tuesday, the Thursday disconnect day for my 5FU pump seemed impossibly far away. The Wednesday was only distinguished by my choice of sleeping areas: couch or bed. When Thursday finally arrived I began to feel hopeful once more, the journey was taking me away from the damn chemo.
Thursday January 13th is worthy to remember, simply because I need to acknowledge my efforts in persevering through the whole chemo process. But I could not have done it without help. A great deal of help. I delivered boxes of chocolates to the medical staff who were there for me time and again. The clinic where they disconnect my 5FU pump. The reception desk at the Cancer Centre where I am greeted by name on my arrival. The lab where my blood was dutifully drawn every two weeks. Finally, for the nurses in the chemotherapy area. They are all terrific, professional, compassionate and caring people. Boxes of chocolates seem somehow too little for the thanks I want to express to these wonderful folks who bring so much compassion and care to my life.
Chemo #12 was completed. By the weekend I would be better, physically and emotionally. I would shovel snow Friday morning and regret it for the remainder of the day (echoes of the chemo still resonating in my chest..) but by Saturday shovelling snow was no problem. I would be walking Sunday without impairment, energized and alive, recovery completed from the chemo. I would build my last chemo clock. I had given away the prior eleven clocks to those persons who were significant in aiding my struggle with Cancer. I would keep chemo clock #12 for myself, as a remembrance to my time with Cancer, Chemo and Care. I would be happy with who I am, what I have accomplished, where I've been and most importantly, where my journey takes me next.
The chemo may be completed for now, but my interaction with the medical system continues. A CT scan awaits me, as do meetings with my Oncologist and Surgeon. I do not know my future, but then who does? For now I am happy, and alive. So far I have achieved all my goals and objectives. My 12th chemo is finished, but my journey continues. I wonder where it will take me next?
If treatment is not working I'm going to have to register a complaint. Probably with myself as I'm the one who needs to make it work. I once wrote that I believe the technical means were at hand to defeat cancer and that I was the one to provide the resolve. In the past few months that resolve has if not exactly wavered, hasn't been the bedrock-solid foundation I need to build my hope upon.
January 11th, 2011 was the day my twelfth chemotherapy session. Prior to this last session my growing tiredness of the whole process was wearing me thin. I needed a break. Chemo #12 will be the last treatment for an unknown time. My Cancer plan calls for me to have a CT scan later in February. It's been a long haul of almost ten months, where my focus is on the Cancer Plan, the Cure and the resumption of life as I once knew it. I've completed my last chemotherapy treatment, and I feel uncertain of what the results will be, of what my life will become, of what path I need to follow.
For the two weeks prior to my 12th chemo I gradually resumed much of my normal activities. My appetite returned, my energy level increased as I resumed my daily walks. Motivation to complete two outstanding 'chemo clocks' prompted me to build my projects once more. I played a little chess, tried to study some programming, but mostly this period can be characterized by 'just tired of it all'. I watched a lot of movies and kept wondering what the 'last' chemo means to me. Am I done? Am I well? Will I regain my former life? And of course the question I always dread...will the Cancer return?
I know the answer to the last question, it's easy: If the Cancer returns I deal with it then. In the meantime, I just need to concentrate on the task at hand. For the present this means managing to get through the 12th chemo.
Chemo #12 started late at 11AM instead of the scheduled 1030 time. Once more I would be seated in chair #11. Once more I unbuttoned my shirt, unselfconsciously in a room full of strangers, so that my nurse could begin the chemo process. Once more I had a problem: the blood return failed. The blood return is an IVPort self-check, where the medical staff can observe if the Port is working correctly. As has often been the case for me of late, this turns out to be a hit-or-miss affair. The general strategy to resolve this problem is to cough, raise my arm on the side of port above my head, cough some more, and see what happens. When these strategies failed I was reclined in my chair til I was completely horizontal, and subsequent variations of this process were tried again.
Liquid Plumbr, chemo-style was the solution. A small tube of this magic liquid is linked to my port, and the inverted tube is then taped onto my shirt. This gives me some temporary freedom from the IV Pole! I can wander around for some 40 minutes, unhindered by my chemical tether. So I walk around the hospital getting some much-needed exercise, and more importantly, to walk off the frustrations I've had about this "last chemo".
Forty minutes later I'm back in the chair with the blood return fully functional. Now the the well-known process resumes: saline solution, followed by the chemo medicine proper. After the chemo drip will be my Avastin, followed by the 5FU flush, the precursor to the 5FU pump being attached to me one more time. During the waiting time I am restless, the internet is not working for the hospital and I am unable to connect up my email. I try to watch a movie, the classic "Inherit the Wind" with Spencer Tracy and Gene Kelly in a rare non-musical role. My shots to relieve my feelings of nausea are given, my body reacting exactly as it has the prior 11 times. I can do chemo in my sleep, if only I were able to sleep...still no internet and it's almost noon. I thank the food services staff for their offer of lunch, but I am too keyed up to eat. Still restless I stand, unable to pace however due to the constraints of my IV pole and my chemical tethers. I can't sit. I can't rest. I have no internet and I can no longer concentrate on my movie. I need to do something. At last I find that something: fixing the loose plates of the A/C outlets.
All the cover plates of the A/C outlets were loose, but not dangerously so. With the continual plugging and unplugging of IV Poles and personal electronics, this is bound to happen. Fortunately I have my Swiss-army-style knife with me, and the bottle-opener/flat screwdriver blade is perfect for the task at hand. Soon all the A/C cover plates within my limited range are securely fastened, and I feel like I've accomplished something useful. I don't think I've used a bottle opener in 30 years though, since the advent of the 'twist off' cap.
After an interminable time my chemo session was done for that day. Sometime around 3PM I get to go home. My 5FU bottle was secured to my port for hopefully the last time. I headed home, tired and worn out from the whole process.
With this second round of chemotherapy I have noticed that sleep the first night is difficult. I can't say why this is but the soreness of my chest is significant. The first night with the 5FU pump is my most difficult, I do not sleep deeply, I am constantly sore and unable to find a comfortable resting position. I am my most miserable during this time, and perhaps because it's the "last" chemo I feel more worn out rather than the elated feeling the accompanies one when a milestone has been reached. For the next several days I do nothing but rest, the couch and my bed are my best friends. I don't really sleep as not move. I get up for my meals but of course there's little appetite within me. The taste of water is unappealing, but juices help. I need to keep fluids in me but it really is a losing battle this time. I spend the second day in my PJ's not even bothering to do more than the basic obligations. I am really tired and I just want to do nothing. Just rest, that's all. I deserve that opportunity not do anything don't I?
When I started my chemo on Tuesday, the Thursday disconnect day for my 5FU pump seemed impossibly far away. The Wednesday was only distinguished by my choice of sleeping areas: couch or bed. When Thursday finally arrived I began to feel hopeful once more, the journey was taking me away from the damn chemo.
Thursday January 13th is worthy to remember, simply because I need to acknowledge my efforts in persevering through the whole chemo process. But I could not have done it without help. A great deal of help. I delivered boxes of chocolates to the medical staff who were there for me time and again. The clinic where they disconnect my 5FU pump. The reception desk at the Cancer Centre where I am greeted by name on my arrival. The lab where my blood was dutifully drawn every two weeks. Finally, for the nurses in the chemotherapy area. They are all terrific, professional, compassionate and caring people. Boxes of chocolates seem somehow too little for the thanks I want to express to these wonderful folks who bring so much compassion and care to my life.
Chemo #12 was completed. By the weekend I would be better, physically and emotionally. I would shovel snow Friday morning and regret it for the remainder of the day (echoes of the chemo still resonating in my chest..) but by Saturday shovelling snow was no problem. I would be walking Sunday without impairment, energized and alive, recovery completed from the chemo. I would build my last chemo clock. I had given away the prior eleven clocks to those persons who were significant in aiding my struggle with Cancer. I would keep chemo clock #12 for myself, as a remembrance to my time with Cancer, Chemo and Care. I would be happy with who I am, what I have accomplished, where I've been and most importantly, where my journey takes me next.
The chemo may be completed for now, but my interaction with the medical system continues. A CT scan awaits me, as do meetings with my Oncologist and Surgeon. I do not know my future, but then who does? For now I am happy, and alive. So far I have achieved all my goals and objectives. My 12th chemo is finished, but my journey continues. I wonder where it will take me next?
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XI
Christmas and Chemotherapy are not my idea of a holiday tradition. My eleventh and hopefully second-last session took place a mere three days after Christmas. The days leading up to this session, like the days leading up to any Christmas were squeezed together with social visits, stealthy Christmas shopping and trying not get sick.
For part of December I felt the effects of a dry, sore throat. Not much coughing, but sneezing always produced bloody kleenex. The extremely dry conditions, the cold, the chemo, and my lack of desire to drink liquids played it's part in feeling so run-down. The cold December restricted my usual daily walks, my lifestyle now had the couch potato effect, and new aches began to appear. Physical ailments aside, the Christmas season brings its own emotional aches and pains.
Nineteen Ninety Eight, the last Christmas I spent with my mom. She was going through the final stages of pancreatic cancer, and her number one son went North for a rare family Christmas. Her journey would finish in February of the New Year. My journey began in February this past year, as the result of a routine physical. I will always remember that final visit with my mom, and relive it every time I hear the Ave Maria from "Going My Way". My Christmas tradition, to watch all the hokey old movies: "It's a Wonderful Life", "Going My Way". Simple classic stuff, nothing deep, just wishy-washy sentimentality. I miss you mom.
Life goes on and I go with it is one of my catchphrases, and it helps to realize that stuff gets done regardless. For instance I played my very first formal game of chess, complete with clock and recording the moves. Now this may seem a bit trivial, but it was unique to me. My very experienced opponent set up the time for one hour per side. Normally I play in a fashion that can be best described as "move then think", which is typically opposite to what the good players do. For this game I tried to be a good player. That illusion lasted a mere 14 moves, but I dutifully hung on til the 40th move or so before conceding the inevitable. I was surprised to find that almost two hours had literally flown by. I was more surprised at how tired I was: thinking is hard work.
Remembering is getting to be hard work for me, at least this past month. The visits from my close friends seem hard to reconstruct, I resort to my handwritten journals to see what I've done, who has visited and when it happened. I can't really blame the chemo effects for this however, it's purely the season and the emotions that go with it. Deep down I wonder if this is going to be the last Christmas.
Christmas day finally arrives, is celebrated, then departs again for another year. I'll see it when it comes 'round again next year is a promise I make to myself. My eleventh chemo is in three more days, my sore throat is finally gone, but I still have an aching right side. The lack of exercise exacerbates everything. This upcoming chemo has an additional challenge: blood work needs to be done prior, but the clinic is closed during the holidays. This leads to the Great Cab Ride of 2010.
Normally I have a ride that brings me to my chemo appointments, but as I was to go in early, I decided to let her sleep in and just take a cab. Not a big deal, I could bike to the clinic in 30 minutes as it's not that far away. However I had the Cab Driver Who Drove Very Very Slow. My ride at a sedate 40km an hour down a major traffic thoroughfare was an exercise in patience. The irony of 'hurry up and wait' is not lost. I finally arrive at the lab to find that the waiting room barely had anyone in it. All that rushing for nothing, and my bloodwork is done in less than 20 minutes. I have almost two hours before my session is scheduled to start, now what?
Being Canadian the answer is obvious: time for a Timmie's coffee. It's a big hospital and there are two kiosks serving the only chemical equivalent I would willingly take on a daily basis. I drink my coffee, I take my pre-chemo pills. I wait, there is still an hour and a half before my appointment. I walk the corridors of a hospital where I once worked some 20 years prior, my start in "real" UNIX systems administration began here. I have some good memories of this place, however I never thought I would return in this fashion. The walking is making me sweat, as I am still bundled in my heavy winter jacket and carrying my backpack. The corridors are long and well lit, with little traffic. I decide I need some real exercise. Gathering my belongings onto a chair fortuitously available to me, I begin my walking. My pace ramps up, this is the first time I've expended exercise energy in weeks and my cadence increases rapidly. I fumble in my pocket for my sony mp3 walkman. Skip the slow songs, skip the classicals, I want a fast tempo, I want to move, I want to get away, I want to live. I fly down the hallway, reach the end, turn, zoom back. Again and again, for over an hour. I'm bathed in sweat when the pager goes off, notifying me that fun is over and it's now time to take my treatment. The high I get from this exercise is miraculous, I have smile on my face, damned if I'm not just plain happy. The Christmas blahs, the needless worrying, the aches and pains are all gone! Just one more chemo after this...
Chair #11 is in the corner facing the Window, watching the December weather, undecided if it's going to be sunny or cloudy. The routine of chemo, once so intimidating is just one more thing I have to do to get better. The process is familiar, I pull my computer and notebook out of my backpack, arranged so that the cords do not interfere with the IV pole for later. Nesting instinct perhaps, I make this space my own for the next four hours. My routine is simply that: routine. Blood return, my usual problem, is fine. Bloodwork results are very good, my White Blood Count above average, Red a little low and the Hemoglobin, low but much improved over the past few weeks of B12 shots and Iron pill supplements. By the numbers I'm doing pretty good. My nurse checks my blood pressure: 119/75 after all that walking. I feel as good as I have in weeks, yet I know that in a few hours all this will be wiped away as the chemotherapy does its job: killing cancer.
Killing cancer. Killing me too. The little death of chemo that extends for three days while I wear the 5FU pump. In three days I will be resurrected. For now I endure what needs to be endured.
My session in the chair is almost done, but now I have a problem: the blood return is not working. Silly IVPort problems, I am now tethered for another half-hour as the "Liquid PlumbR" equivalent cleans out the port. Finally a good return and the 5FU pump can be attached to me. I get to go home, after being in the hospital some six hours today. I figure that after all this exercise and the extended session that I'd just crash.
Once again the chemo threw me a curve. In the past after the initial session in the chair I can think of doing nothing but going to sleep as soon as I get home. I rest but am not rested. Uncomfortable the entire day, never actually experiencing nausea, but never feel like I wouldn't be sick. The large foam cup was always within reach. The pressure on my chest was constant, and varied in intensity as I tried to find a comfortable position. I could not lie on my back or my side, as the feelings of nausea tended to increase. Only on my stomach did these feelings subside, but I cannot sleep on my stomach. That first night of chemo I watched the clock as it crawled to 530am. Sometimes all we can do is endure, I am so tired of chemo, I just want it to be over, I am just so tired...
I sleep maybe 3 hours, get up and force myself through the morning routine. Of late I lack much of my former discipline, I need to concentrate to take my morning pills, to take my temperature and weight. I watch a movie but I cannot remember what occurred. The day drifts in an out, chemo sucks this time, it really is not fun. By 1130 that night I have had enough of keeping the couch warm, and go to sleep. I only wake up a few times, but the crushing pressure on my chest has dissipated and I sleep more or less normally. Only one more day of wearing the pump before I can become myself again.
My final morning of chemo reveals that I am short of pills. A quick call to the Cancer Centre pharmacy and my refill order is placed. All the staff at the Cancer Centre are extremely helpful, my prescription will be ready by the afternoon. My only goal for the remainder of the morning is to get rid of the 5FU pump. The now familiar run to the clinic is so routine as to be boring. Few people waiting, I am in and out within half an hour. The pump is enveloped within two heavy plastic bags, the large CYTOTOXIC warning prominent. My eleventh chemo session is dutifully completed when I return the spent bottle to the Cancer Centre. Technically I have one more pill to take that night, but my freedom is restored once the bottle is off of me.
My second round of chemotherapy has proved to be more difficult than what I had experienced during the summer. Each session seems to add a different wrinkle, throwing off expectations and eroding some of my confidence. The challenge is to survive the continual erosion that the chemotherapy process has on body and mind. The journey I am on started a long time ago, sometimes the path is clear, sometimes lost in Terra Incognita. Somehow I always manage to find my way to the next destination. The final chemotherapy session is only two weeks away. All that remains afterwards is the CT scan. All my hopes are now pinned to results of that scan. My journey continues, but I wonder where my destination will be.
For part of December I felt the effects of a dry, sore throat. Not much coughing, but sneezing always produced bloody kleenex. The extremely dry conditions, the cold, the chemo, and my lack of desire to drink liquids played it's part in feeling so run-down. The cold December restricted my usual daily walks, my lifestyle now had the couch potato effect, and new aches began to appear. Physical ailments aside, the Christmas season brings its own emotional aches and pains.
Nineteen Ninety Eight, the last Christmas I spent with my mom. She was going through the final stages of pancreatic cancer, and her number one son went North for a rare family Christmas. Her journey would finish in February of the New Year. My journey began in February this past year, as the result of a routine physical. I will always remember that final visit with my mom, and relive it every time I hear the Ave Maria from "Going My Way". My Christmas tradition, to watch all the hokey old movies: "It's a Wonderful Life", "Going My Way". Simple classic stuff, nothing deep, just wishy-washy sentimentality. I miss you mom.
Life goes on and I go with it is one of my catchphrases, and it helps to realize that stuff gets done regardless. For instance I played my very first formal game of chess, complete with clock and recording the moves. Now this may seem a bit trivial, but it was unique to me. My very experienced opponent set up the time for one hour per side. Normally I play in a fashion that can be best described as "move then think", which is typically opposite to what the good players do. For this game I tried to be a good player. That illusion lasted a mere 14 moves, but I dutifully hung on til the 40th move or so before conceding the inevitable. I was surprised to find that almost two hours had literally flown by. I was more surprised at how tired I was: thinking is hard work.
Remembering is getting to be hard work for me, at least this past month. The visits from my close friends seem hard to reconstruct, I resort to my handwritten journals to see what I've done, who has visited and when it happened. I can't really blame the chemo effects for this however, it's purely the season and the emotions that go with it. Deep down I wonder if this is going to be the last Christmas.
Christmas day finally arrives, is celebrated, then departs again for another year. I'll see it when it comes 'round again next year is a promise I make to myself. My eleventh chemo is in three more days, my sore throat is finally gone, but I still have an aching right side. The lack of exercise exacerbates everything. This upcoming chemo has an additional challenge: blood work needs to be done prior, but the clinic is closed during the holidays. This leads to the Great Cab Ride of 2010.
Normally I have a ride that brings me to my chemo appointments, but as I was to go in early, I decided to let her sleep in and just take a cab. Not a big deal, I could bike to the clinic in 30 minutes as it's not that far away. However I had the Cab Driver Who Drove Very Very Slow. My ride at a sedate 40km an hour down a major traffic thoroughfare was an exercise in patience. The irony of 'hurry up and wait' is not lost. I finally arrive at the lab to find that the waiting room barely had anyone in it. All that rushing for nothing, and my bloodwork is done in less than 20 minutes. I have almost two hours before my session is scheduled to start, now what?
Being Canadian the answer is obvious: time for a Timmie's coffee. It's a big hospital and there are two kiosks serving the only chemical equivalent I would willingly take on a daily basis. I drink my coffee, I take my pre-chemo pills. I wait, there is still an hour and a half before my appointment. I walk the corridors of a hospital where I once worked some 20 years prior, my start in "real" UNIX systems administration began here. I have some good memories of this place, however I never thought I would return in this fashion. The walking is making me sweat, as I am still bundled in my heavy winter jacket and carrying my backpack. The corridors are long and well lit, with little traffic. I decide I need some real exercise. Gathering my belongings onto a chair fortuitously available to me, I begin my walking. My pace ramps up, this is the first time I've expended exercise energy in weeks and my cadence increases rapidly. I fumble in my pocket for my sony mp3 walkman. Skip the slow songs, skip the classicals, I want a fast tempo, I want to move, I want to get away, I want to live. I fly down the hallway, reach the end, turn, zoom back. Again and again, for over an hour. I'm bathed in sweat when the pager goes off, notifying me that fun is over and it's now time to take my treatment. The high I get from this exercise is miraculous, I have smile on my face, damned if I'm not just plain happy. The Christmas blahs, the needless worrying, the aches and pains are all gone! Just one more chemo after this...
Chair #11 is in the corner facing the Window, watching the December weather, undecided if it's going to be sunny or cloudy. The routine of chemo, once so intimidating is just one more thing I have to do to get better. The process is familiar, I pull my computer and notebook out of my backpack, arranged so that the cords do not interfere with the IV pole for later. Nesting instinct perhaps, I make this space my own for the next four hours. My routine is simply that: routine. Blood return, my usual problem, is fine. Bloodwork results are very good, my White Blood Count above average, Red a little low and the Hemoglobin, low but much improved over the past few weeks of B12 shots and Iron pill supplements. By the numbers I'm doing pretty good. My nurse checks my blood pressure: 119/75 after all that walking. I feel as good as I have in weeks, yet I know that in a few hours all this will be wiped away as the chemotherapy does its job: killing cancer.
Killing cancer. Killing me too. The little death of chemo that extends for three days while I wear the 5FU pump. In three days I will be resurrected. For now I endure what needs to be endured.
My session in the chair is almost done, but now I have a problem: the blood return is not working. Silly IVPort problems, I am now tethered for another half-hour as the "Liquid PlumbR" equivalent cleans out the port. Finally a good return and the 5FU pump can be attached to me. I get to go home, after being in the hospital some six hours today. I figure that after all this exercise and the extended session that I'd just crash.
Once again the chemo threw me a curve. In the past after the initial session in the chair I can think of doing nothing but going to sleep as soon as I get home. I rest but am not rested. Uncomfortable the entire day, never actually experiencing nausea, but never feel like I wouldn't be sick. The large foam cup was always within reach. The pressure on my chest was constant, and varied in intensity as I tried to find a comfortable position. I could not lie on my back or my side, as the feelings of nausea tended to increase. Only on my stomach did these feelings subside, but I cannot sleep on my stomach. That first night of chemo I watched the clock as it crawled to 530am. Sometimes all we can do is endure, I am so tired of chemo, I just want it to be over, I am just so tired...
I sleep maybe 3 hours, get up and force myself through the morning routine. Of late I lack much of my former discipline, I need to concentrate to take my morning pills, to take my temperature and weight. I watch a movie but I cannot remember what occurred. The day drifts in an out, chemo sucks this time, it really is not fun. By 1130 that night I have had enough of keeping the couch warm, and go to sleep. I only wake up a few times, but the crushing pressure on my chest has dissipated and I sleep more or less normally. Only one more day of wearing the pump before I can become myself again.
My final morning of chemo reveals that I am short of pills. A quick call to the Cancer Centre pharmacy and my refill order is placed. All the staff at the Cancer Centre are extremely helpful, my prescription will be ready by the afternoon. My only goal for the remainder of the morning is to get rid of the 5FU pump. The now familiar run to the clinic is so routine as to be boring. Few people waiting, I am in and out within half an hour. The pump is enveloped within two heavy plastic bags, the large CYTOTOXIC warning prominent. My eleventh chemo session is dutifully completed when I return the spent bottle to the Cancer Centre. Technically I have one more pill to take that night, but my freedom is restored once the bottle is off of me.
My second round of chemotherapy has proved to be more difficult than what I had experienced during the summer. Each session seems to add a different wrinkle, throwing off expectations and eroding some of my confidence. The challenge is to survive the continual erosion that the chemotherapy process has on body and mind. The journey I am on started a long time ago, sometimes the path is clear, sometimes lost in Terra Incognita. Somehow I always manage to find my way to the next destination. The final chemotherapy session is only two weeks away. All that remains afterwards is the CT scan. All my hopes are now pinned to results of that scan. My journey continues, but I wonder where my destination will be.
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