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.
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