I had planned to write about the sequence of events for the remainder of March, and of course all of April. Now it will also include May and a bit of June , as I'm a tad behind in blog writing. Basically I saw the Bone doc, the Oncologist Doc, an ER doc and an Orthopedic surgeon. Because in the last week of May, I broke my right leg.
For several months I had been contemplating resuming chemo therapy. This was contingent upon my regaining the strength in my left leg and actually walking. That was the plan for the early part of April. April came and went, my mid-evening crying bouts were getting routine. I was simply getting tireder and weaker with each passing day. My other options would strictly be palliative with the goal of minimizing pain. I made my thoughts know to my Oncologist that I would likely rely upon his office for pain management. Initially this would consist of two strings of pills to do the 'long acting' control comprising 18 mg, a 75mg nerve pain control, a 10 mg 24 hour anti-depressant, and finally various supplements for Arthritis and Laxatives. The entire regimen complemented by a 2 mg pill for 'breakthrough pain ("fast acting"?). That was the plan in April.
By May my patient care was transitioned from the Cancer Centre to the Hospice of Windsor. I had a new doctor that would oversee all my pain care management. I also had acquired a new social worker from the Hospice, who was willing to do house calls. I felt that it was necessary to minimize my migration from point A to point B, not sure why I felt that, but it's one that seems to be working for me. With all the new medical partners in place, I felt that I could start enjoying the sunny days of warm weather. Of course I could enjoy them, but no one said they would last. And in the last week of May, I skillfully demonstrated How Not To Enjoy Summer by breaking my right femur. I reengaged my pain battle with a new level that saw both my legs declared non-weight bearing, and a serious decision needed to be be made: I could no longer take care of myself on my own, and would would require daily assistance. Therefore I found myself within a long-term care facility after entering the hospital and surgery was performed on my right leg. This surgery would involve a metal rod inserted to help heal the bones together. The nature of the surgery was technically easy, but my age, the extent of my cancer throughout my bones, all made the side effects more profound, and not for the first time had I wished that I had not woken up from the procedure. Recovery would take weeks, and would leave me incredibly weak, bedridden and unable to to do anything for myself. I lost all sense of appetite and had little appreciation for life. How many more setbacks must be endured before I would encounter peace?
I would be in Hospital for slightly under two weeks when a room opened up at a long term care care facility, and I was moved there. Room #32_30 would now be my home for the duration of my stay.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
With Sadness...
It is with sadness to say that Terry past away on June 27, 2016 in his sleep. After fighting the courageous battle of cancer for six years, he was not able to do it any longer. As he wrote the blog, he wanted to help others who would be going through the different tests and chemo/radiation treatments. Terry was an excellent writer who shared this with others and also helped him through some very difficult times with his own decreasing health. Along with the writing, he was able to share his hobbies (making clocks and other blinking electronics) with each of you who read his blog. " Terry Therapy. " He was overwhelmed of the support he received from his friends and family. It did help him quite a bit and a big thank you to all. Cherished memories is what Terry made sure we would always have of him.
Life is not forever, but love is...
Life is not forever, but love is...
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
March -the month of more scans and pains
These days my calendar is sprinkled with nothing but medically-related appointments. I start the month of March with a visit to my family doctor for refills of prescriptions, and a B12 shot. I would continue with a CT scan a few days later. By now a CT scan is routine for me, and frankly pretty boring. While the exam took place on Wednesday, March 9th, the preparations started the day before: drinking the first bottle of RediCat. Think of the flavour and texture as a sort of chalk smoothie, with a hint of berry. The second bottle would be brought along to the exam so I could drink it when instructed by a tech.
What made this particular CT different from previous ones was how fatigued I would be, simply crutching from the Hospital entrance to the CT registration. When I arrived at the front doors of the Hospital, I was offered a wheel chair, but stubborn me felt I could handle it on my own. I would remember this day on future visits, and when a wheelchair is offered, I say YES! Eventually I arrived at CT registration, tired, worn out and looking for a place to nap.
Once registered, I was directed to the CT suite and instructed to drink my remaining bottle of RediChalk. All I wanted to do was just lie down, close my eyes, and rest. Ironically this is exactly what needs to be done during the CT scan itself, albeit with an IV attached. This IV's job is to push a liquid that would make my ears and anus warm, and leave me wondering if I had soiled myself.
Fortunately from previous experience, I knew those feelings was just that, and I wasn't wetting the bed. During the CT exam I would be instructed to take deep breaths, breathe normally, or simply be informed that the IV push was coming through. In general there's nothing particularly difficult about a CT Exam
With the test completed and the IV removed, l was free to go home. Feeling marginally better, I one again eschewed the wheelchair, crutching my way to the outside of the Hospital entrance, and flopping down on a bench, waiting for my ride. With my broken leg (still healing .... ) getting in and out of a vehicle is a challenge. Getting in and out of my house with its few stairs was now akin to climbing Everest (a very small Everest perhaps). Suffice to say my landing pad when I finally arrived at the house was crashing on my bed.
It would be March 17th when I saw my oncologist to discuss my results. Still have that darn cancer chewing away at my bones, still have a slowly healing left tibia. But a small spark of hope that in a month or so I could be strong enough to resume Chemo. I felt confident enough to book a Chemo session for the end of April, after all, I felt OK in the leg mobility department.
Twenty Four hours later that would change, and all my confidence and strength destroyed by one little event. It got worse: my pain was increasing in my jaw, and my pain management didn't seem to be working.
Halfway through March and I had severely twisted my right knee, formerly the load-bearing leg while my left leg was recovering. Now it seems I'm literally left without a leg to stand on.
What made this particular CT different from previous ones was how fatigued I would be, simply crutching from the Hospital entrance to the CT registration. When I arrived at the front doors of the Hospital, I was offered a wheel chair, but stubborn me felt I could handle it on my own. I would remember this day on future visits, and when a wheelchair is offered, I say YES! Eventually I arrived at CT registration, tired, worn out and looking for a place to nap.
Once registered, I was directed to the CT suite and instructed to drink my remaining bottle of RediChalk. All I wanted to do was just lie down, close my eyes, and rest. Ironically this is exactly what needs to be done during the CT scan itself, albeit with an IV attached. This IV's job is to push a liquid that would make my ears and anus warm, and leave me wondering if I had soiled myself.
Fortunately from previous experience, I knew those feelings was just that, and I wasn't wetting the bed. During the CT exam I would be instructed to take deep breaths, breathe normally, or simply be informed that the IV push was coming through. In general there's nothing particularly difficult about a CT Exam
With the test completed and the IV removed, l was free to go home. Feeling marginally better, I one again eschewed the wheelchair, crutching my way to the outside of the Hospital entrance, and flopping down on a bench, waiting for my ride. With my broken leg (still healing .... ) getting in and out of a vehicle is a challenge. Getting in and out of my house with its few stairs was now akin to climbing Everest (a very small Everest perhaps). Suffice to say my landing pad when I finally arrived at the house was crashing on my bed.
It would be March 17th when I saw my oncologist to discuss my results. Still have that darn cancer chewing away at my bones, still have a slowly healing left tibia. But a small spark of hope that in a month or so I could be strong enough to resume Chemo. I felt confident enough to book a Chemo session for the end of April, after all, I felt OK in the leg mobility department.
Twenty Four hours later that would change, and all my confidence and strength destroyed by one little event. It got worse: my pain was increasing in my jaw, and my pain management didn't seem to be working.
Halfway through March and I had severely twisted my right knee, formerly the load-bearing leg while my left leg was recovering. Now it seems I'm literally left without a leg to stand on.
Monday, March 14, 2016
The Radiation Chronicles: VI
Cancer chew toy, that's what I am these days. The cancer started in my colon in 2010, and categorized as Stage 4 as it had spread to my liver. By 2014 it had returned to my colon, and from there spread to my lung. Not satisfied with soft tissue, it began snacking my left tibia. However cancer looks at my body like an all-you-can-eat buffet, and in early 2016, it had spread in earnest: lower left jaw, thoracic and lumbar spine, right hip, right ankle. Unfortunately cancer has a constant dining companion called Pain, and my quality of life went from miserable to despair. Then it got worse.
Despite the drama implied above, the pain and symptoms did not happen overnight. Months prior to my most recent radiation treatment I had noticed a numbness in my chin. Additionally a loose tooth from that same time frame went on to become a 'highly mobile' tooth that required immediate extraction. The extracted tooth would be biopsied and show cancer in my jaw. The extent of the bone cancer showed clearly in a subsequent bone scan. My treatment, as it has been over the past year, is of a palliative nature: control my pain to give me some enjoyment of life. That treatment would take the form of a single large-dose of radiation, and that happened on Tuesday, February 18th, 2016.
Prior to my actual procedure was something called a CT mapping. A special CT scanner determines the extent of the cancer in the bone. Because it would target my lower left jaw, it was imperative that the beam be precisely 'on target'. The easiest way is to immobilize the target so it won't move. Translation: lock my head down. During the CT mapping a plastic mesh mask is created to precisely place my head into the same position for my return visit. Millimeters can make a difference. The mask will prevent me from overtly moving during treatment. It's a bit unnerving as the mask, while mesh, is so very tight. Furthermore, this mask will be bolted to the table during the treatment.
With the mapping over I waited for my appointment for the actual procedure. During this time my lower left jaw was getting worse. Ongoing numbness in my chin made me feel like I had a fat lip. Drinking liquids would sometimes result in dribbles down my chin. Headaches on my left side of my head grew progressively worse. I would find that even at night, laying on my left side, the pillow would put too much pressure on my face. Sleeping was uncomfortable and broken, even with the sleeping pills. By far the worst aspect was the emotional one, as every time I brushed my teeth I would look into my mouth and see the raw effects of cancer directly working on my body. Gums were enlarged, splitting away from the tooth at acute angles. My teeth were being forced out of alignment by the actions of the cancer. A careless slip of my toothbrush would result in a sink full of blood. My despair grew as I waited. A momentary pain, no matter what the source, would cause me to lose control and I would spend the next hour crying. Tylenol-3's were being taken as often as safely recommended, but they were proving inadequate. Finally I received an appointment for my treatment, and it was with a mixture of relief and fear that I brought with me that day.
There were no special requirements on the day of treatment, but I made sure I took a Lorezapam to relax me, and two more Tyelenol-3's to hopefully cope with the pain that would accompany me lying on my back. They almost worked. From previous experience with radiation on my leg, I figured I knew what was going to happen next, and I was mostly right. I would have two treatments this session, one for the jaw, the other for my lower back. The jaw was first, which meant my plastic mesh mask and I would be inseparable for the next few minutes.
Getting comfortable on a flat surface when you have a broken leg, arthritic joints (especially the knees), and soreness in the back is simply on of those things you have to grit your teeth and do. Only with the restraining mask on me, I couldn't even grit my teeth. My face and head were in exactly the same position they were in during the CT mapping process the week before. However this time the mask was secured to the table. As a small comfort, a foam support was put under my knees to help my legs and joints. Finally they were ready to begin.
First part of the treatment is actually an X-ray, to ensure that the area they're treating is indeed the area we want treated. If there are problems at this stage, my treatment would stop. Fortunately everything appeared good to the technicians and the radiation treatment proceeded. They actually position the doses from both the left and right side, in order to evenly distribute the beam across the affected areas. I had a fleeting vision of me with permanently sunburned cheeks. Fortunately this scenario did not occur. Whether due to the combination of meds or my thoughts wandering off into dark outcomes, the treatment seemed to crawl along. In reality it was only tens of minutes. Mask removed, I was allowed to recover somewhat. I needed to sit up, to stretch. My back during this time had become very uncomfortable. Yet I would need to return to that uncomfortable position once again, in order to treat that back pain.
I still need to remain in a fixed position during the treatment, but by now my backache was aggravating me more the longer I remained prone. Similar to the previous treatment for my jaw, I would have a single large dose of radiation administered from above and below. In some cases this might affect bowel or bladder, but my main concern was simply to not move and ignore the pain. Perhaps because the 'hard part' of treatment while wearing the mask was complete, the back procedure seemed to go quicker. In short time I was crutching my way out of the Cancer Clinic, to go home and rest. All I had to do now was wait for the radiation to do its job over the next few weeks. What that meant was I had to endure more pain.
By the time the first weekend rolled around after my radiation therapy, I was experiencing daily headaches that left me morose and miserable, unable to concentrate, and unwilling to do any activities. Evenings or time when I was alone seemed to magnify this effect. A quick spurt of pain would bring tears, and that would magnify the enormity of my despair: real crying jags would be the result. I had no hope within me, and just wanted relief from life. By Monday I had enough, and contacted the Cancer Centre, telling them I was having difficulty managing my pain. Within minutes I received call back: a prescription for Dilaudid to replace my Tylenol-3's was issued.
I would take a pill every 4 hours 'as needed'. By Wednesday I realized that they were not making much, if any, difference. Another call to the Cancer Centre. Another prescription. Basically a 12 hour long-acting version of what I received on Monday was sent to me. This time there was noticeable relief from my various pains. By Friday my headaches were under control. I had an appetite again (sort of). I was drinking a lot more water. And my medicine shelf was stocked with a variety of laxatives and stool softeners. Strong pain medication comes with a price.
Exactly one week after my radiation treatment, I had an appointment with my Dental Surgeon to follow-up with the tooth he had extracted. He was concerned over the size of the growth of the gum tissue. To alleviate a possible infection, I was given an antibiotic, along with an antibacterial mouthwash, and a numbing agent that he believed might bring some temporary relief if applied to my gum on the left side.
Over the next several weeks there would be some relief, due to the drugs and the radiation treatment. But I also experienced side effects: incredibly tired and weak, no appetite and I wanted to do nothing but sleep. Sometimes I would be sick, shaky arms and tears as I held onto the toilet wondering if my life couldn't get any more miserable. My days are filled with mindless entertainment on TV and the internet as I wander from couch to the bed. The nights when I am home alone are the worst.
Three weeks after my radiation treatment I was scheduled for another CT scan. I'm so tired of tests, despite how routine they are by now. But for now the weather is getting warmer, the days are brighter and Spring is on its way. We'll see what the next CT scan brings.
Despite the drama implied above, the pain and symptoms did not happen overnight. Months prior to my most recent radiation treatment I had noticed a numbness in my chin. Additionally a loose tooth from that same time frame went on to become a 'highly mobile' tooth that required immediate extraction. The extracted tooth would be biopsied and show cancer in my jaw. The extent of the bone cancer showed clearly in a subsequent bone scan. My treatment, as it has been over the past year, is of a palliative nature: control my pain to give me some enjoyment of life. That treatment would take the form of a single large-dose of radiation, and that happened on Tuesday, February 18th, 2016.
Prior to my actual procedure was something called a CT mapping. A special CT scanner determines the extent of the cancer in the bone. Because it would target my lower left jaw, it was imperative that the beam be precisely 'on target'. The easiest way is to immobilize the target so it won't move. Translation: lock my head down. During the CT mapping a plastic mesh mask is created to precisely place my head into the same position for my return visit. Millimeters can make a difference. The mask will prevent me from overtly moving during treatment. It's a bit unnerving as the mask, while mesh, is so very tight. Furthermore, this mask will be bolted to the table during the treatment.
With the mapping over I waited for my appointment for the actual procedure. During this time my lower left jaw was getting worse. Ongoing numbness in my chin made me feel like I had a fat lip. Drinking liquids would sometimes result in dribbles down my chin. Headaches on my left side of my head grew progressively worse. I would find that even at night, laying on my left side, the pillow would put too much pressure on my face. Sleeping was uncomfortable and broken, even with the sleeping pills. By far the worst aspect was the emotional one, as every time I brushed my teeth I would look into my mouth and see the raw effects of cancer directly working on my body. Gums were enlarged, splitting away from the tooth at acute angles. My teeth were being forced out of alignment by the actions of the cancer. A careless slip of my toothbrush would result in a sink full of blood. My despair grew as I waited. A momentary pain, no matter what the source, would cause me to lose control and I would spend the next hour crying. Tylenol-3's were being taken as often as safely recommended, but they were proving inadequate. Finally I received an appointment for my treatment, and it was with a mixture of relief and fear that I brought with me that day.
There were no special requirements on the day of treatment, but I made sure I took a Lorezapam to relax me, and two more Tyelenol-3's to hopefully cope with the pain that would accompany me lying on my back. They almost worked. From previous experience with radiation on my leg, I figured I knew what was going to happen next, and I was mostly right. I would have two treatments this session, one for the jaw, the other for my lower back. The jaw was first, which meant my plastic mesh mask and I would be inseparable for the next few minutes.
Getting comfortable on a flat surface when you have a broken leg, arthritic joints (especially the knees), and soreness in the back is simply on of those things you have to grit your teeth and do. Only with the restraining mask on me, I couldn't even grit my teeth. My face and head were in exactly the same position they were in during the CT mapping process the week before. However this time the mask was secured to the table. As a small comfort, a foam support was put under my knees to help my legs and joints. Finally they were ready to begin.
First part of the treatment is actually an X-ray, to ensure that the area they're treating is indeed the area we want treated. If there are problems at this stage, my treatment would stop. Fortunately everything appeared good to the technicians and the radiation treatment proceeded. They actually position the doses from both the left and right side, in order to evenly distribute the beam across the affected areas. I had a fleeting vision of me with permanently sunburned cheeks. Fortunately this scenario did not occur. Whether due to the combination of meds or my thoughts wandering off into dark outcomes, the treatment seemed to crawl along. In reality it was only tens of minutes. Mask removed, I was allowed to recover somewhat. I needed to sit up, to stretch. My back during this time had become very uncomfortable. Yet I would need to return to that uncomfortable position once again, in order to treat that back pain.
I still need to remain in a fixed position during the treatment, but by now my backache was aggravating me more the longer I remained prone. Similar to the previous treatment for my jaw, I would have a single large dose of radiation administered from above and below. In some cases this might affect bowel or bladder, but my main concern was simply to not move and ignore the pain. Perhaps because the 'hard part' of treatment while wearing the mask was complete, the back procedure seemed to go quicker. In short time I was crutching my way out of the Cancer Clinic, to go home and rest. All I had to do now was wait for the radiation to do its job over the next few weeks. What that meant was I had to endure more pain.
By the time the first weekend rolled around after my radiation therapy, I was experiencing daily headaches that left me morose and miserable, unable to concentrate, and unwilling to do any activities. Evenings or time when I was alone seemed to magnify this effect. A quick spurt of pain would bring tears, and that would magnify the enormity of my despair: real crying jags would be the result. I had no hope within me, and just wanted relief from life. By Monday I had enough, and contacted the Cancer Centre, telling them I was having difficulty managing my pain. Within minutes I received call back: a prescription for Dilaudid to replace my Tylenol-3's was issued.
I would take a pill every 4 hours 'as needed'. By Wednesday I realized that they were not making much, if any, difference. Another call to the Cancer Centre. Another prescription. Basically a 12 hour long-acting version of what I received on Monday was sent to me. This time there was noticeable relief from my various pains. By Friday my headaches were under control. I had an appetite again (sort of). I was drinking a lot more water. And my medicine shelf was stocked with a variety of laxatives and stool softeners. Strong pain medication comes with a price.
Exactly one week after my radiation treatment, I had an appointment with my Dental Surgeon to follow-up with the tooth he had extracted. He was concerned over the size of the growth of the gum tissue. To alleviate a possible infection, I was given an antibiotic, along with an antibacterial mouthwash, and a numbing agent that he believed might bring some temporary relief if applied to my gum on the left side.
Over the next several weeks there would be some relief, due to the drugs and the radiation treatment. But I also experienced side effects: incredibly tired and weak, no appetite and I wanted to do nothing but sleep. Sometimes I would be sick, shaky arms and tears as I held onto the toilet wondering if my life couldn't get any more miserable. My days are filled with mindless entertainment on TV and the internet as I wander from couch to the bed. The nights when I am home alone are the worst.
Three weeks after my radiation treatment I was scheduled for another CT scan. I'm so tired of tests, despite how routine they are by now. But for now the weather is getting warmer, the days are brighter and Spring is on its way. We'll see what the next CT scan brings.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Biopsy and Bone Scan
Friday, January 29th I received a call from my oncologist's office: I was booked for a Bone Scan on Monday, February 1st. This was unexpected, and I felt that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Two weeks prior I had a tooth pulled, and my dental surgeon had sent a sample away for a biopsy. My suspicion that the two events were related would soon be proved correct.
Monday February 1st I arrived at the hospital for my third bone scan. Still using crutches because I'm wearing a half cast on my left leg. A knee brace is on my right knee. I manage to crutch all the way from the hospital entrance to the nuclear medicine department. My poor health shows in my huffing and puffing. I feel extremely weak. Concern for my breathing prompted the techs to give me Oxygen, and I was put on a bed while waiting for my procedure. My breathing concerns were conveyed to my oncologist, and I was given an X-ray and blood work. Fortunately my O2 saturation was 99% and my lungs showed no pneumonia. I'm just incredibly out of shape after two months of doing nothing more active than sitting on a couch. With the concern for my breathing resolved, I was ready for the bone scan procedure to begin.
The bone scan is done in two phases: first an injection of a mild radioactive tracer is given. A wait of about an hour is required for the tracer material to wander through your system. You're encouraged to drink a lot of fluids during this time. During the interval between the injection and the actual scanning, I met with my oncologist. After assuring me that my breathing and oxygen were OK, I was ready to continue with the remainder of my bone scan procedure.
For approximately one hour I would remain flat on my back while the procedure slowly took place. Pain was radiating from my lower left hip and back. All I could do was endure, weary of yet another test that would only result in negative outcomes. Nearly one hour after the scan commenced it finished, and I was able to finally sit up and massage my aching back. Exhausted by my morning exertions I would return home, to rest and wait for the results. My wait wasn't long and the news was what I dreaded to hear: the cancer had spread.
In 2010 I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Colon Cancer, with metastases in my liver. In 2014 it had returned to my colon. In 2015 it manifested in my left lung, and later in my left shin bone. Now in 2016 it had rampaged through my body: my left jaw, lumbar spine, thoracic spine, right hip, and right ankle. By far the worst was my jaw. A biopsy performed on my pulled tooth two weeks prior confirmed that it was from colon cancer. My gums were being split, and forming ugly growths that cause growing discomfort day by day. A large single dose of radiation to relieve the discomfort and pain was the proposed remedy. There is no cure, it's simply about pain control and quality of life now.
My pain is two-fold: physical and emotional. For the physical I take Tylenol-3's. For the emotional I have anti-depressants prescribed by my family doctor. Pills alone do not suffice, I also have counseling from my social worker. I can't cope on my own, and the reality is I'll never be independent again.
In the days that followed my bone scan I would see my Dental Surgeon, talk with my Social Worker, and visit the Fracture clinic. My leg cast would initially be reduced, allowing me to bend my knee. Later the cast would be removed entirely and I would be fitted with a walking boot. But my immediate goal is the upcoming radiation treatment for my jaw. The growing pains in my body are tenuously held at bay by a handful of pills. It won't hold the pain back for long.
Monday February 1st I arrived at the hospital for my third bone scan. Still using crutches because I'm wearing a half cast on my left leg. A knee brace is on my right knee. I manage to crutch all the way from the hospital entrance to the nuclear medicine department. My poor health shows in my huffing and puffing. I feel extremely weak. Concern for my breathing prompted the techs to give me Oxygen, and I was put on a bed while waiting for my procedure. My breathing concerns were conveyed to my oncologist, and I was given an X-ray and blood work. Fortunately my O2 saturation was 99% and my lungs showed no pneumonia. I'm just incredibly out of shape after two months of doing nothing more active than sitting on a couch. With the concern for my breathing resolved, I was ready for the bone scan procedure to begin.
The bone scan is done in two phases: first an injection of a mild radioactive tracer is given. A wait of about an hour is required for the tracer material to wander through your system. You're encouraged to drink a lot of fluids during this time. During the interval between the injection and the actual scanning, I met with my oncologist. After assuring me that my breathing and oxygen were OK, I was ready to continue with the remainder of my bone scan procedure.
For approximately one hour I would remain flat on my back while the procedure slowly took place. Pain was radiating from my lower left hip and back. All I could do was endure, weary of yet another test that would only result in negative outcomes. Nearly one hour after the scan commenced it finished, and I was able to finally sit up and massage my aching back. Exhausted by my morning exertions I would return home, to rest and wait for the results. My wait wasn't long and the news was what I dreaded to hear: the cancer had spread.
In 2010 I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Colon Cancer, with metastases in my liver. In 2014 it had returned to my colon. In 2015 it manifested in my left lung, and later in my left shin bone. Now in 2016 it had rampaged through my body: my left jaw, lumbar spine, thoracic spine, right hip, and right ankle. By far the worst was my jaw. A biopsy performed on my pulled tooth two weeks prior confirmed that it was from colon cancer. My gums were being split, and forming ugly growths that cause growing discomfort day by day. A large single dose of radiation to relieve the discomfort and pain was the proposed remedy. There is no cure, it's simply about pain control and quality of life now.
My pain is two-fold: physical and emotional. For the physical I take Tylenol-3's. For the emotional I have anti-depressants prescribed by my family doctor. Pills alone do not suffice, I also have counseling from my social worker. I can't cope on my own, and the reality is I'll never be independent again.
In the days that followed my bone scan I would see my Dental Surgeon, talk with my Social Worker, and visit the Fracture clinic. My leg cast would initially be reduced, allowing me to bend my knee. Later the cast would be removed entirely and I would be fitted with a walking boot. But my immediate goal is the upcoming radiation treatment for my jaw. The growing pains in my body are tenuously held at bay by a handful of pills. It won't hold the pain back for long.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Weary of Sadness
Since November 21, 2015 I've been in a full leg cast due to a broken tibia. The onset of Winter, the stress of the Christmas Holidays, and a disruptive loose tooth have led me to the brink of an emotional crash. I usually detail my experiences, the good and bad in my writing. This time I simply have no way to express my emotional state given the ongoing inner turmoil I constantly experience.
I cry nearly every day, for no particular reason. It might be a sentimental Christmas song, or maybe a TV commercial with a plea to help the less fortunate. Certainly the media has pounded the guilt drums long and loud. My limited mobility and dependency on others reinforces the feeling that I have nothing left to contribute. Seasonal depression, days of gray seem to mirror what's in my heart. I want to live, and I don't. Giving up who I am to become what I will be is the hardest thing I've done. And there is pain from the leg break.
Once upon a time I would stoically endure the minor aches and pains I experience daily. Now it's just easier to let the tears flow. The subtle trap is that my emotions run unchecked, decision making is difficult, and concentration is non-existent. For nearly two months I've lived like this, hoping that when the cast is removed things will get relatively better for me.
One thing has gotten better: I had a tooth pulled on Jan 19th. After nearly a month of visiting the dentist, being referred to a Dental Surgeon for an Emergency extraction, I got the damn thing removed. While there's considerable relief from that action, nothing is free in my world. The dental surgeon has decided to biopsy a sample from the site. It's likely due to an infection, but at the same time, my history warrants further investigation. In two weeks I'll find out the results, and perhaps there will be more tears -hopefully in relief.
I cry nearly every day, for no particular reason. It might be a sentimental Christmas song, or maybe a TV commercial with a plea to help the less fortunate. Certainly the media has pounded the guilt drums long and loud. My limited mobility and dependency on others reinforces the feeling that I have nothing left to contribute. Seasonal depression, days of gray seem to mirror what's in my heart. I want to live, and I don't. Giving up who I am to become what I will be is the hardest thing I've done. And there is pain from the leg break.
Once upon a time I would stoically endure the minor aches and pains I experience daily. Now it's just easier to let the tears flow. The subtle trap is that my emotions run unchecked, decision making is difficult, and concentration is non-existent. For nearly two months I've lived like this, hoping that when the cast is removed things will get relatively better for me.
One thing has gotten better: I had a tooth pulled on Jan 19th. After nearly a month of visiting the dentist, being referred to a Dental Surgeon for an Emergency extraction, I got the damn thing removed. While there's considerable relief from that action, nothing is free in my world. The dental surgeon has decided to biopsy a sample from the site. It's likely due to an infection, but at the same time, my history warrants further investigation. In two weeks I'll find out the results, and perhaps there will be more tears -hopefully in relief.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Them's the breaks ...
I broke my leg Saturday November 21st. I spent that weekend traveling to and from the local hospitals to get a full leg cast. Monday I would see my Oncologist. Tuesday I was scheduled to have my seventh chemo. However the results from the oncologist would end up giving me another break, this one from chemo.
Monday afternoon I'm at the Cancer Centre, my new cast making simple operations like, say, walking, a challenge. With the car parked as near the door as it could, my driver ran inside and returned with a wheelchair. Entering and leaving a vehicle is very awkward process: I end up having to push myself as far back in my seat and slightly up (OK my head hits the roof). Arched like that, I can barely swing my left leg out. It takes all my efforts to stand up. It's definitely easier to sit down. I'm wheeled into the cancer centre. From there a kind volunteer assists me: first I retrieve the obligatory paperwork from the reception desk. Next I'm brought up to the second floor, where I'm brought to the ESAS computer terminal. Rather than have me leave my chair or try to wriggle me behind a screen, my volunteer acts as my proxy, typing in my OHIP number and my responses to the ESAS questions. With the results printed out, I wheeled to another waiting area where another receptionist takes my paperwork. With his duties completed, my elderly but energetic volunteer cheerfully returns to his post, while I wait to be called in for my appointment.
Waiting wasn't too long, and my name is being called. My nurse is surprised to see me in a wheelchair, with a full leg cast that makes my leg thrust out like a battering ram. Due to my current state I get to bypass having my weight checked. But routine temperature and blood pressure measurements are still performed. I'm 'normal', I guess that's a good thing. Of course I'm asked what happened and I tell her the gory details. My nurse departs with all this updated information to give to my oncologist. Shortly after the nurse leaves, the doc arrives. He is surprised at what I've done now. In short order I tell him that the doc at the Fracture clinic wanted to do surgery. But with the Avastin still coursing through me, that's contra-indicated. So we settle on this: I get a break from chemo (this is the good kind of break). Now for the results of CT, the reason I'm here. Short answer: Status Quo. There is some minor shrinkage of some tumour, but I focus on the 'not growing' aspect. I suspect my oncologist was hoping for a better result, in truth, so was I.
So after the perfunctory inspection (I didn't have to get up on the exam table fortunately), I was given another appointment time, and for a few weeks, a reprieve from chemo. In January of 2016 I'll return to the Cancer Clinic and we'll start fresh, possibly with even more potent chemo. Oh, joy, I can hardly wait to see what new side effect this will have on me.
Over the next few weeks I'll have several follow-ups with the Fracture clinic to assess my leg. I'll learn how to navigate around household furniture using crutches and my natural, catlike reflexes (OK, just crutches). Taking a shower is still a challenge, but a refreshing one.
Through the dark gray December days I cope as best as I can to work through the everyday challenges -getting dressed, shower, even going to the bathroom. The hardest part is the feeling that I'm not contributing. I can't take the garbage out, can't go to the basement and bring food up from the freezer. Can't is a word that does not sit well with me. There are some solutions -an office chair with wheels lets me scoot around the kitchen to make my breakfast, but I can't carry a simple glass of water without risk of spilling or dropping it. And everything takes forever for me to accomplish, as I need to figure out how to best extricate myself from a sitting to a standing position; I'm always looking around for support whenever I move. Bed time is sometimes tough, my inability to sleep on my side is frustrating. Waking up in pain as my cast-leg gets stuck in the blankets. Sometimes I can't sleep, and I get emotional. But I have a caring partner, and I know that the bad times won't last forever. I endure what I must, and dream of walking in the Spring once more.
My last Fracture Clinic visit of 2015 happened in mid-December. After the obligatory 2 hour wait and 10 minute examination, my doctor observed that the bone seemed to be healing. For that auspicious result, I won't have to go back to this clinic until mid January of 2016! I hope by then there will be sufficient healing that the cast can be removed, or at least reduced so I can bend my knee. A full length cast is just so annoying!
Christmas was peaceful but emotional, and I wonder if this will be the last I spend with those I love. Eventually the pragmatic side returns, and I resume my mantra of "I live for Today, I hope for Tomorrow". One day at a time. All the little things that help me get through my day. Despite the emotional roller coaster and my inability to 'just be me', I did accomplish a few things. One was the arrival of some cool electronics from a dear friend and former roommate of mine from my University days long ago.
As those who know me are aware, I love to dabble in electronics. Things that make LEDs light up delight me in and keep me enthralled for hours. So imagine how happy I was to receive a package from my ol' roomie that contained nearly two dozen circuit boards and a ton of components. I was ecstatic, only one problem: I couldn't get to my workshop to assemble anything. The solution was to move what I needed upstairs, and helping with that was another friend. I truly am lucky to have such great friends.
The end result is no surprise to those that know me: more clocks!
My time is spent mostly on the couch with my computer, puttering when I have the energy on my hobbies, and trying to get a good nights sleep. I dream of walking, and my hope is that the new year will make my simple dream come true.
Monday afternoon I'm at the Cancer Centre, my new cast making simple operations like, say, walking, a challenge. With the car parked as near the door as it could, my driver ran inside and returned with a wheelchair. Entering and leaving a vehicle is very awkward process: I end up having to push myself as far back in my seat and slightly up (OK my head hits the roof). Arched like that, I can barely swing my left leg out. It takes all my efforts to stand up. It's definitely easier to sit down. I'm wheeled into the cancer centre. From there a kind volunteer assists me: first I retrieve the obligatory paperwork from the reception desk. Next I'm brought up to the second floor, where I'm brought to the ESAS computer terminal. Rather than have me leave my chair or try to wriggle me behind a screen, my volunteer acts as my proxy, typing in my OHIP number and my responses to the ESAS questions. With the results printed out, I wheeled to another waiting area where another receptionist takes my paperwork. With his duties completed, my elderly but energetic volunteer cheerfully returns to his post, while I wait to be called in for my appointment.
Waiting wasn't too long, and my name is being called. My nurse is surprised to see me in a wheelchair, with a full leg cast that makes my leg thrust out like a battering ram. Due to my current state I get to bypass having my weight checked. But routine temperature and blood pressure measurements are still performed. I'm 'normal', I guess that's a good thing. Of course I'm asked what happened and I tell her the gory details. My nurse departs with all this updated information to give to my oncologist. Shortly after the nurse leaves, the doc arrives. He is surprised at what I've done now. In short order I tell him that the doc at the Fracture clinic wanted to do surgery. But with the Avastin still coursing through me, that's contra-indicated. So we settle on this: I get a break from chemo (this is the good kind of break). Now for the results of CT, the reason I'm here. Short answer: Status Quo. There is some minor shrinkage of some tumour, but I focus on the 'not growing' aspect. I suspect my oncologist was hoping for a better result, in truth, so was I.
So after the perfunctory inspection (I didn't have to get up on the exam table fortunately), I was given another appointment time, and for a few weeks, a reprieve from chemo. In January of 2016 I'll return to the Cancer Clinic and we'll start fresh, possibly with even more potent chemo. Oh, joy, I can hardly wait to see what new side effect this will have on me.
Over the next few weeks I'll have several follow-ups with the Fracture clinic to assess my leg. I'll learn how to navigate around household furniture using crutches and my natural, catlike reflexes (OK, just crutches). Taking a shower is still a challenge, but a refreshing one.
Through the dark gray December days I cope as best as I can to work through the everyday challenges -getting dressed, shower, even going to the bathroom. The hardest part is the feeling that I'm not contributing. I can't take the garbage out, can't go to the basement and bring food up from the freezer. Can't is a word that does not sit well with me. There are some solutions -an office chair with wheels lets me scoot around the kitchen to make my breakfast, but I can't carry a simple glass of water without risk of spilling or dropping it. And everything takes forever for me to accomplish, as I need to figure out how to best extricate myself from a sitting to a standing position; I'm always looking around for support whenever I move. Bed time is sometimes tough, my inability to sleep on my side is frustrating. Waking up in pain as my cast-leg gets stuck in the blankets. Sometimes I can't sleep, and I get emotional. But I have a caring partner, and I know that the bad times won't last forever. I endure what I must, and dream of walking in the Spring once more.
My last Fracture Clinic visit of 2015 happened in mid-December. After the obligatory 2 hour wait and 10 minute examination, my doctor observed that the bone seemed to be healing. For that auspicious result, I won't have to go back to this clinic until mid January of 2016! I hope by then there will be sufficient healing that the cast can be removed, or at least reduced so I can bend my knee. A full length cast is just so annoying!
Christmas was peaceful but emotional, and I wonder if this will be the last I spend with those I love. Eventually the pragmatic side returns, and I resume my mantra of "I live for Today, I hope for Tomorrow". One day at a time. All the little things that help me get through my day. Despite the emotional roller coaster and my inability to 'just be me', I did accomplish a few things. One was the arrival of some cool electronics from a dear friend and former roommate of mine from my University days long ago.
As those who know me are aware, I love to dabble in electronics. Things that make LEDs light up delight me in and keep me enthralled for hours. So imagine how happy I was to receive a package from my ol' roomie that contained nearly two dozen circuit boards and a ton of components. I was ecstatic, only one problem: I couldn't get to my workshop to assemble anything. The solution was to move what I needed upstairs, and helping with that was another friend. I truly am lucky to have such great friends.
The end result is no surprise to those that know me: more clocks!
My time is spent mostly on the couch with my computer, puttering when I have the energy on my hobbies, and trying to get a good nights sleep. I dream of walking, and my hope is that the new year will make my simple dream come true.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XVIII
I was all set to write about what was by far the easiest and (almost) boring chemo thus far: my 6th chemo of this second round. Instead, after two weeks of doing activities that made me happy, that granted me independence, that made me feel like I was making a difference again, life changed abruptly. It was all because I walked down my basement steps.
Back in June of 2015 it was determined that the cancer had metastasized to the bone of my left leg. I had radiation therapy for five days at the end of June. A month later I twisted my right knee. The Fall would see me barely able to walk. Finally during the past three weeks my right knee felt strong. I walked. A lot. Earlier in the week I was feeling some pain in left shin, Tylonol seemed to manage that. Secretly I was afraid the cancer had returned.
What happened next was a change of life. My mobility failed me by walking down my basement steps on Saturday November 21. One moment I was descending the steps, the next I was holding onto the handrail, screaming for JoAnne to help. But Jo had left for work mere minutes ago. I was alone, on my steps, knowing I had broken my left leg.
Still yelling for help that no one could hear, I crawled up my steps. Then along the kitchen floor to the nearest phone. I was able to reach it. Then to the fridge for my neighbors number. I called, the desperation and fear in my voice asking for help. I was greeted by voice mail. My plea for help left, I had a realization. My workbench had a hot soldering iron on it. Visions of my house burning down made me do a crazy thing: I crawled back down those stairs that have twice changed my life. I crawled further still, into my workshop, reaching up to turn off the soldering iron. Still galvanized with some energy that came from somewhere unknown, I crawled up my stairs again, across the kitchen floor, opening my front door. Finally I called 911, and got the Ambulance dispatcher.
In the midst of the call my neighbors arrived at the door, their looks of concern remain forever in my memory. I actually cancelled the call for the Ambulance, thinking I wasn't in pain and they'd just drive me to the ER. My neighbor Mike, a former ambulance attendant himself calmly assessed me and concluded an ambulance was warranted. Once more I called and in a short time I had two very professional ambulance attendants in my house. A plastic-type brace was placed on my left leg, securing it. Next I was put into a chair, to carry me out the house. My three steps leading into the house were no obstacle for these folks. Finally I was smoothly transferred to a gurney, and for the first time in my life, I would have an ambulance ride.
Adrenaline, shock, fear, all those combined to keep my blood presure high. I felt no pain at all during this time, either from the break or during the ride to the ER. My bad jokes were endured by my ambulance host with good graces; she no doubt has seen this behavior many times before. I arrived at the ER and was whisked inside. I was in good spirits. I knew I had a broken leg and that I'd probably have a cast. What I didn't yet realize were the extent of the changes this would bring into my life. What I would soon realize was the effect it would have on JoAnne. Caregiver extraordinaire, her burden would soon become heavier.
Once inside and registered in the ER, I was put into an exam room. My doctor naturally called for Xrays. I'm shuttled down to the ER Xray room, the tech smoothly managing positioning my bad leg with a minimum of yelping from me. No pain, unless I twisted my leg. Or moved my leg. I guess the adrenaline was wearing off. Xrays completed, back to the ER room to wait for the results.
Soon enough the ER doc has reviewed the pictures and determined that it was a 'simple' break, without too much displacement. That meant no setting of the bone, it would be in a cast 'as-is'. It looked pretty deformed to me but it's only my leg. First challenge: pants.
In order to put on the cast, my pants would be removed. They wouldn't be able to go over the cast. Our first winter-type storm, with snow and freezing temperatures would greet me when I left the hospital. I didn't want to go outside in a hospital gown, so Jo drove home to pick up some baggier shorts. The temporary splint would fit under those no problem. By now I had been in the ER over four and half hours. Time was going by quickly, the mini tablet I had was spewing forth emails to family and friends. I was distracted from the reality of what was going on around me. Then, I realized that laying there, on yet another Hospital bed, that this was not going to be my last time here.
Alone, tired, the shock and andrenaline gone I was moved to tears with the realization that my life was irrevocably changed. I won't ever walk like Terry once did. My mobility, my freedom is now gone. But the worst were the thoughts about my partner JoAnne: on her shoulders would all my care lie. I cried in that ER, thinking about how unfair it was that something that affects me affects all those around me. Not for the last time I wondered if this was all worth it.
Tears are cathartic and cleansing. At least that's what everyone tells me. The good news is that I did a lot of that cleansing after I left the ER. The temporary cast was applied and as the wet strips hardened I felt better. I still wasn't experiencing any traumatic pain, I was being cared for by professionals, I had nurses asking me about my cancer journey. The compassion of all the medical professionals was evident in their concern and care. I did not feel alone.
When I got my shorts I was able to change without too much trouble. Now the ER doc with three nurses assisting put on my temporary cast. It's weird, the layers go on soft and wet, and warm. The heat transforming a soggy bunch of fabric into a rigid cast within 20 minutes. I get my discharge paperwork, and an appointment time for the fixed cast at the Fracture clinic, scheduled for Sunday morning at 730 am. After five and half hours in the ER, I can go home.
Getting home would be the next challenge. From the ER I would use a wheelchair to bring me to the car waiting to pick me up. I'm tall, and a cast that prevented my knee from bending presented a logistics option: how to get in.
But I managed through grit and perseverance (and ignoring, mostly, the painful reminders of why I was wearing a cast). Getting out of the car and going up my steps would be the second challenge. That's where my guardian angel, in the form of my neighbor Mike once again rescued me.
I was able to extricate myself from the car, and clumsily used the crutches I had used for my previous knee injury. It was a shaky entry into the landing. There were two more steps to climb before I would be in the house. That's when my angel helped. With practiced ease of someone trained in helping people, I was gently helped up the stairs. Hands locked on my wrists I was placed onto a chair, from which I could once again stand on shaky legs.
My adventure would continue, I could barely walk even with crutches. The pain albeit minor, still announced it's presence whenever it decided I did something stupid. Which I did routinely. Everyday activities - getting dressed or undressed -pulling off my shoes and socks were an adventure in engineering. And the worst part -my bathroom commode faces my bathtub. With less than 24 inches of free space, my cast preventing me from bending my knee caused the use of the facilities to be far more acrobatic than anticipated. I also know why there are hand rails in bathrooms. Pity I don't have one in mine.
I am if not smart, at least determined. I managed to overcome my obstacles one at a time. For the most part my usual method is patience. Wait long enough and problems resolve themselves. In two months (probably more...) my leg might be healed and this won't be a problem anymore. Knowing that the problems will go away in time however doesn't replace the reality of the now: sleeping with a cast is damn uncomfortable. I like to sleep on my right side. A left leg break prevents that. I would doze through the night, eventually and be awake by 6am to go to the Fracture clinic.
Even though I had a cast put on my the ER doc, it was temporary. The Fracture clinic would asses and put on the 'real' cast. Sunday morning at 730am I'm sitting in another wheelchair, waiting my turn to get a new cast. I guessed it would be better, more rigid and not have that annoying back-of-the-knee extension that prevent my leg from bending. Go figure, I was wrong again.
I did get the new rigid cast, only it went up to mid thigh. The reason for a full-leg cast was so the tibia didn't twist. Originally the doctor assessed me and suggested that I have surgery to implant a metal rod to structurally support the leg. While I wasn't afraid of the surgery, my chemo, in particular the Avastin treatment, prohibited this activity for at least six weeks. By which time I might actually begin to heal. So full length cast was what I was rolled out of the hospital with. Now to get into the car..
Awkwardness is my current state. I can get in and out of the car by careful and slow movements. The crutches worked a bit better -the rigid cast helped I think. Negotiating the steps takes time, but I didn't require any assistance. The bathroom thing is even more awkward. But I manage. After the events of the past 24 hours, I finally nap and feel if not refreshed, better. I deal with life one day at a time. Today I had a cast. Tomorrow I see my chemo doc to assess my CT scan. At that time I will ask for a postponement of my chemo, which is to be on the Tuesday. I'll find out tomorrow.
For now I have to thank my neighbors, Mike and Patty, and special thanks for Jo for all she's done to care for me with yet another mis-adventure.
Tomorrow I see an Onclogist and hear the results from my latest (17th!) CT scan. I wonder how wacky my life will become after that.
Back in June of 2015 it was determined that the cancer had metastasized to the bone of my left leg. I had radiation therapy for five days at the end of June. A month later I twisted my right knee. The Fall would see me barely able to walk. Finally during the past three weeks my right knee felt strong. I walked. A lot. Earlier in the week I was feeling some pain in left shin, Tylonol seemed to manage that. Secretly I was afraid the cancer had returned.
What happened next was a change of life. My mobility failed me by walking down my basement steps on Saturday November 21. One moment I was descending the steps, the next I was holding onto the handrail, screaming for JoAnne to help. But Jo had left for work mere minutes ago. I was alone, on my steps, knowing I had broken my left leg.
Still yelling for help that no one could hear, I crawled up my steps. Then along the kitchen floor to the nearest phone. I was able to reach it. Then to the fridge for my neighbors number. I called, the desperation and fear in my voice asking for help. I was greeted by voice mail. My plea for help left, I had a realization. My workbench had a hot soldering iron on it. Visions of my house burning down made me do a crazy thing: I crawled back down those stairs that have twice changed my life. I crawled further still, into my workshop, reaching up to turn off the soldering iron. Still galvanized with some energy that came from somewhere unknown, I crawled up my stairs again, across the kitchen floor, opening my front door. Finally I called 911, and got the Ambulance dispatcher.
In the midst of the call my neighbors arrived at the door, their looks of concern remain forever in my memory. I actually cancelled the call for the Ambulance, thinking I wasn't in pain and they'd just drive me to the ER. My neighbor Mike, a former ambulance attendant himself calmly assessed me and concluded an ambulance was warranted. Once more I called and in a short time I had two very professional ambulance attendants in my house. A plastic-type brace was placed on my left leg, securing it. Next I was put into a chair, to carry me out the house. My three steps leading into the house were no obstacle for these folks. Finally I was smoothly transferred to a gurney, and for the first time in my life, I would have an ambulance ride.
Adrenaline, shock, fear, all those combined to keep my blood presure high. I felt no pain at all during this time, either from the break or during the ride to the ER. My bad jokes were endured by my ambulance host with good graces; she no doubt has seen this behavior many times before. I arrived at the ER and was whisked inside. I was in good spirits. I knew I had a broken leg and that I'd probably have a cast. What I didn't yet realize were the extent of the changes this would bring into my life. What I would soon realize was the effect it would have on JoAnne. Caregiver extraordinaire, her burden would soon become heavier.
Once inside and registered in the ER, I was put into an exam room. My doctor naturally called for Xrays. I'm shuttled down to the ER Xray room, the tech smoothly managing positioning my bad leg with a minimum of yelping from me. No pain, unless I twisted my leg. Or moved my leg. I guess the adrenaline was wearing off. Xrays completed, back to the ER room to wait for the results.
Soon enough the ER doc has reviewed the pictures and determined that it was a 'simple' break, without too much displacement. That meant no setting of the bone, it would be in a cast 'as-is'. It looked pretty deformed to me but it's only my leg. First challenge: pants.
In order to put on the cast, my pants would be removed. They wouldn't be able to go over the cast. Our first winter-type storm, with snow and freezing temperatures would greet me when I left the hospital. I didn't want to go outside in a hospital gown, so Jo drove home to pick up some baggier shorts. The temporary splint would fit under those no problem. By now I had been in the ER over four and half hours. Time was going by quickly, the mini tablet I had was spewing forth emails to family and friends. I was distracted from the reality of what was going on around me. Then, I realized that laying there, on yet another Hospital bed, that this was not going to be my last time here.
Alone, tired, the shock and andrenaline gone I was moved to tears with the realization that my life was irrevocably changed. I won't ever walk like Terry once did. My mobility, my freedom is now gone. But the worst were the thoughts about my partner JoAnne: on her shoulders would all my care lie. I cried in that ER, thinking about how unfair it was that something that affects me affects all those around me. Not for the last time I wondered if this was all worth it.
Tears are cathartic and cleansing. At least that's what everyone tells me. The good news is that I did a lot of that cleansing after I left the ER. The temporary cast was applied and as the wet strips hardened I felt better. I still wasn't experiencing any traumatic pain, I was being cared for by professionals, I had nurses asking me about my cancer journey. The compassion of all the medical professionals was evident in their concern and care. I did not feel alone.
When I got my shorts I was able to change without too much trouble. Now the ER doc with three nurses assisting put on my temporary cast. It's weird, the layers go on soft and wet, and warm. The heat transforming a soggy bunch of fabric into a rigid cast within 20 minutes. I get my discharge paperwork, and an appointment time for the fixed cast at the Fracture clinic, scheduled for Sunday morning at 730 am. After five and half hours in the ER, I can go home.
 |
| Me with my temporary cast 20151121 |
Getting home would be the next challenge. From the ER I would use a wheelchair to bring me to the car waiting to pick me up. I'm tall, and a cast that prevented my knee from bending presented a logistics option: how to get in.
But I managed through grit and perseverance (and ignoring, mostly, the painful reminders of why I was wearing a cast). Getting out of the car and going up my steps would be the second challenge. That's where my guardian angel, in the form of my neighbor Mike once again rescued me.
I was able to extricate myself from the car, and clumsily used the crutches I had used for my previous knee injury. It was a shaky entry into the landing. There were two more steps to climb before I would be in the house. That's when my angel helped. With practiced ease of someone trained in helping people, I was gently helped up the stairs. Hands locked on my wrists I was placed onto a chair, from which I could once again stand on shaky legs.
My adventure would continue, I could barely walk even with crutches. The pain albeit minor, still announced it's presence whenever it decided I did something stupid. Which I did routinely. Everyday activities - getting dressed or undressed -pulling off my shoes and socks were an adventure in engineering. And the worst part -my bathroom commode faces my bathtub. With less than 24 inches of free space, my cast preventing me from bending my knee caused the use of the facilities to be far more acrobatic than anticipated. I also know why there are hand rails in bathrooms. Pity I don't have one in mine.
I am if not smart, at least determined. I managed to overcome my obstacles one at a time. For the most part my usual method is patience. Wait long enough and problems resolve themselves. In two months (probably more...) my leg might be healed and this won't be a problem anymore. Knowing that the problems will go away in time however doesn't replace the reality of the now: sleeping with a cast is damn uncomfortable. I like to sleep on my right side. A left leg break prevents that. I would doze through the night, eventually and be awake by 6am to go to the Fracture clinic.
Even though I had a cast put on my the ER doc, it was temporary. The Fracture clinic would asses and put on the 'real' cast. Sunday morning at 730am I'm sitting in another wheelchair, waiting my turn to get a new cast. I guessed it would be better, more rigid and not have that annoying back-of-the-knee extension that prevent my leg from bending. Go figure, I was wrong again.
I did get the new rigid cast, only it went up to mid thigh. The reason for a full-leg cast was so the tibia didn't twist. Originally the doctor assessed me and suggested that I have surgery to implant a metal rod to structurally support the leg. While I wasn't afraid of the surgery, my chemo, in particular the Avastin treatment, prohibited this activity for at least six weeks. By which time I might actually begin to heal. So full length cast was what I was rolled out of the hospital with. Now to get into the car..
Awkwardness is my current state. I can get in and out of the car by careful and slow movements. The crutches worked a bit better -the rigid cast helped I think. Negotiating the steps takes time, but I didn't require any assistance. The bathroom thing is even more awkward. But I manage. After the events of the past 24 hours, I finally nap and feel if not refreshed, better. I deal with life one day at a time. Today I had a cast. Tomorrow I see my chemo doc to assess my CT scan. At that time I will ask for a postponement of my chemo, which is to be on the Tuesday. I'll find out tomorrow.
For now I have to thank my neighbors, Mike and Patty, and special thanks for Jo for all she's done to care for me with yet another mis-adventure.
Tomorrow I see an Onclogist and hear the results from my latest (17th!) CT scan. I wonder how wacky my life will become after that.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XVII
Tuesday, October 27th, 2015. Chair #8 is where I will be for the next several hours while I receive chemo #5 for this session. My seventeenth chemo since this whole thing started over five years ago. Every session is the same, but there are differences. Those differences are not in the treatment but in the way I handle the treatment. For the next three days I would endure the process, and despite the occasional uncomfortable aspects, this chemo didn't go too badly.
The session started around 930am, but I begin the process at home, taking my pre-chemo pills. Onedesteron is the medication that I'm advised helps with potential nausea during the chemo session. I take only one, and then Lorezepam, to help with anxiety. My first session had caused me (and my doctors) some concern as to how I was emotionally managing the process. I think I'm doing a lot better, but I still take the pill. Perhaps the next session I'll go without and see how well I cope. The next set of pills I'll take will be when I'm starting the chemo session: three Dexamethasone, the so-called "Chrysler" pills, the shape of which has a passing resemblance to the Chrysler logo. I won't take any more pills during my three days of chemo (save the ones for Arthritis and allergies).
Each session I try to tweak my routine, to find the most comfort during this time. I had cut down on the pills post-chemo, as their side effects were, to put it mildly, extremely disruptive to my emotional and physical comfort. I make sure that my diet during these days are high in fibre, and try to keep hydrated. The problem with hydration is that for me, water does not taste right, and doesn't quench my thirst. So I supplement my liquid intake with Apple and Orange juice, and Ginger Ale. Prior to this chemo I was taking RestorOlax to assist the evacuation process. This session I opted not to use it, relying upon high fibre and a lot of liquids. This seemed to work, as I didn't suffer the ongoing cramps that sometimes come with using a stool softener. It's a reality that the type of chemo I'm on causes constipation, so fruit and fibre and water and Activia yogurt are staples during this time. I seemed to have manged my diet and bowels, however there remained other side effects. Sleeping difficulties and bleeding gums are still issues.
While I only spend a few hours in the chemo chair, the treatment continues with the attachment of a 5FU pump, designed to meter chemo medication into me over a 46 hour period. Essentially for the next two days I am physically bonded to a bottle. I can't shower with it, and sleeping with it is sometimes awkward. Sleep however is a problem. When I arrive home after the initial session I'm tired and drained of energy. I sometimes rest on the couch, never quite falling asleep. The problem is that I feel tired but can't sleep. I've restored to taking sleeping pills, rather than toss and turn for hours. The first night with the pump is usually the worst for sleep for some reason.
My other concern is bleeding gums after brushing my teeth. One side of my mouth (left side) is extremely sensitive. I resorted to pre-rinsing my brush in hot water to soften the bristles, this helps somewhat. I would later learn that I should get not only the ultrasoft brushes, but the soft brushes designed for infants. And I was advised to get a new brush every chemo. A sink full of blood mixed with toothpaste is not a pleasant sight.
I've also noticed that sneezing also produces a bloody residue. These bleeding issues are attributed to the Avastin medication that I receive during chemo. Avastin is designed to inhibit the growth of new blood vessels, essentially denying new cancer tumours an energy source. So basically my side effects this session are not sleeping, and sore gums.
It isn't only medicine that I rely upon during these three-day sessions, it's my desire to keep active, physically and mentally. I don't go out while wearing the pump, my physical activities are limited due to my sore knee and shin. But I don't just sit on the couch during this time, I do normal household chores -manly things too, like laundry, cleaning the bathroom, doing dishes. When I have the mental energy I play chess online. I dabble with my electronics hobby, and read a lot. I now have time to read for enjoyment, not just technical documents that seemed to be my only reading material while working. I'm learning to enjoy my good days.
My three days of chemo are filled with ways to not think about cancer, despite the tug of the pump attached to my chest. I look forward to the time when it is removed, and Thursday Oct. 29th at 1120am I was at CCAC, ready for the pump disconnect. Another routine disconnect with a good blood return, and precious little hair yanked from my chest. And as has been a tradition of late, lunch was at a nearby Arby's. Moderate consumption as opposed to my gluttony of previous times. This day wasn't simply a pump disconnect day, it was the first time in three days that I was outside, and walking.
I walk like a drunken penguin these days, due to the knee injury I suffered in August and the radiation treatment in June for my leg. But I'm now walking without a brace and I feel better for it. With the pump removed the next week would see me recovering from the effects of chemo. And it would be a wonderful week to be chemo-free!
Chemo-free but not medically free. On Wednesday November 4th I would have another CT scan. As always this is a two day event. And both days involve drinking the RediCat Smoothie. As mentioned before it's berry flavoured chalk, heavy on the chalk. I have two bottles of this stuff, one I drink the night before around 9:00PM. The next morning I won't eat anything for three hours prior to my appointment. I bring my second bottle with me for my appointment at noon. As I register at the Diagnostic imaging desk, I'm informed I need blood work. Because it's a Wednesday, my last blood work on Monday the week before is not valid. So off to the lab I go, figuring it will be 15 minutes. Nope, lots of folks waiting at noon. Eventually my blood is taken, and I return to the CT waiting area. I'm informed I can drink my second bottle. Lukewarm chalk drink serves as lunch. Now I wait. I wait until the lab results are in and just before 1:00PM I'm called into the CT prep area where I receive my second needle jab of the day, this time for the IV that will be used to inject the contrast dye during the scan.
I've often wondered how many scans I've had, and when the technician first brought out the paperwork and asked if I had a CT scan before, it reminded me to ask her to look up my record. She took my signed paperwork acknowledging that they can push the contrast dye through me, and returned, informing me that they have a record of 20 scans for me. At this point I've had 16 CT's, 2 Bone Scans and 2 real-time flouroscopy (for the IV Port insertions). This CT will be number 17. My first CT was in September of 2005 for kidney stone (still the Worst Pain Ever) and all the remaining scans were since 2010. Today's scan will be like the other 16: lie on the bed, cover up with a sheet to preserve my modesty as I pull my pants down. Both arms are extended straight overhead. The bed slides through scanner, a voice tells me to take a breath and hold, then as I return back to the starting position I can breathe normally. The process repeats a couple of times, and shortly I'm told I'm done. I can now put my pants back on and the IV is removed. I'll sport a nice bruise on my left arm for the next couple of weeks. Another scan is done, and I can resume enjoying my day. Plus I have to carve a pumpkin.
Halloween was a wet and cold affair, 12 kids trick or treating on a Saturday night was the best showing I've had for several years. This year I built fading RGB LED eyes for my scary vegetable. The following week, my non-chemo week saw days filled with sunshine, blue skies and temperatures in the low 70's (F that is). The nice weather energized or motivate me somewhat. I would create other circuit boards for my hobby of making clocks. More importantly, I would get out and ride my bike and walk. The latter activities were both the most tiring and most enjoyable. I felt almost like my old self again.
There were a number of social meetups, which I actually find more exhausting than bike riding or other physical activities. I enjoyed seeing folks from my workplace, and an old friend from University. I find that I no longer worry about my former workplace, I guess the 600+ folks at the job can get along fine without me, and I'm glad I can accept that. But they haven't forgotten me, and the last weekend before the next chemo a good friend from work and his son showed up at my house to clean my gutters and rake my lawn of the leaves. I am continually humbled by the friendships I've made from my work (and other) places over the years. I can truly say I'm lucky.
My fifth chemo was remarkably boring in terms of side effects. I was able to take charge of my post-chemo recovery in a strong fashion, able to do basically whatever I felt like doing. While my stamina and strength has never returned to the state I was in 6 months ago, I feel like I'm gaining a bit more stamina and strength. Walking is clearly in my future. One more day at a time.
The session started around 930am, but I begin the process at home, taking my pre-chemo pills. Onedesteron is the medication that I'm advised helps with potential nausea during the chemo session. I take only one, and then Lorezepam, to help with anxiety. My first session had caused me (and my doctors) some concern as to how I was emotionally managing the process. I think I'm doing a lot better, but I still take the pill. Perhaps the next session I'll go without and see how well I cope. The next set of pills I'll take will be when I'm starting the chemo session: three Dexamethasone, the so-called "Chrysler" pills, the shape of which has a passing resemblance to the Chrysler logo. I won't take any more pills during my three days of chemo (save the ones for Arthritis and allergies).
Each session I try to tweak my routine, to find the most comfort during this time. I had cut down on the pills post-chemo, as their side effects were, to put it mildly, extremely disruptive to my emotional and physical comfort. I make sure that my diet during these days are high in fibre, and try to keep hydrated. The problem with hydration is that for me, water does not taste right, and doesn't quench my thirst. So I supplement my liquid intake with Apple and Orange juice, and Ginger Ale. Prior to this chemo I was taking RestorOlax to assist the evacuation process. This session I opted not to use it, relying upon high fibre and a lot of liquids. This seemed to work, as I didn't suffer the ongoing cramps that sometimes come with using a stool softener. It's a reality that the type of chemo I'm on causes constipation, so fruit and fibre and water and Activia yogurt are staples during this time. I seemed to have manged my diet and bowels, however there remained other side effects. Sleeping difficulties and bleeding gums are still issues.
While I only spend a few hours in the chemo chair, the treatment continues with the attachment of a 5FU pump, designed to meter chemo medication into me over a 46 hour period. Essentially for the next two days I am physically bonded to a bottle. I can't shower with it, and sleeping with it is sometimes awkward. Sleep however is a problem. When I arrive home after the initial session I'm tired and drained of energy. I sometimes rest on the couch, never quite falling asleep. The problem is that I feel tired but can't sleep. I've restored to taking sleeping pills, rather than toss and turn for hours. The first night with the pump is usually the worst for sleep for some reason.
My other concern is bleeding gums after brushing my teeth. One side of my mouth (left side) is extremely sensitive. I resorted to pre-rinsing my brush in hot water to soften the bristles, this helps somewhat. I would later learn that I should get not only the ultrasoft brushes, but the soft brushes designed for infants. And I was advised to get a new brush every chemo. A sink full of blood mixed with toothpaste is not a pleasant sight.
I've also noticed that sneezing also produces a bloody residue. These bleeding issues are attributed to the Avastin medication that I receive during chemo. Avastin is designed to inhibit the growth of new blood vessels, essentially denying new cancer tumours an energy source. So basically my side effects this session are not sleeping, and sore gums.
It isn't only medicine that I rely upon during these three-day sessions, it's my desire to keep active, physically and mentally. I don't go out while wearing the pump, my physical activities are limited due to my sore knee and shin. But I don't just sit on the couch during this time, I do normal household chores -manly things too, like laundry, cleaning the bathroom, doing dishes. When I have the mental energy I play chess online. I dabble with my electronics hobby, and read a lot. I now have time to read for enjoyment, not just technical documents that seemed to be my only reading material while working. I'm learning to enjoy my good days.
My three days of chemo are filled with ways to not think about cancer, despite the tug of the pump attached to my chest. I look forward to the time when it is removed, and Thursday Oct. 29th at 1120am I was at CCAC, ready for the pump disconnect. Another routine disconnect with a good blood return, and precious little hair yanked from my chest. And as has been a tradition of late, lunch was at a nearby Arby's. Moderate consumption as opposed to my gluttony of previous times. This day wasn't simply a pump disconnect day, it was the first time in three days that I was outside, and walking.
I walk like a drunken penguin these days, due to the knee injury I suffered in August and the radiation treatment in June for my leg. But I'm now walking without a brace and I feel better for it. With the pump removed the next week would see me recovering from the effects of chemo. And it would be a wonderful week to be chemo-free!
Chemo-free but not medically free. On Wednesday November 4th I would have another CT scan. As always this is a two day event. And both days involve drinking the RediCat Smoothie. As mentioned before it's berry flavoured chalk, heavy on the chalk. I have two bottles of this stuff, one I drink the night before around 9:00PM. The next morning I won't eat anything for three hours prior to my appointment. I bring my second bottle with me for my appointment at noon. As I register at the Diagnostic imaging desk, I'm informed I need blood work. Because it's a Wednesday, my last blood work on Monday the week before is not valid. So off to the lab I go, figuring it will be 15 minutes. Nope, lots of folks waiting at noon. Eventually my blood is taken, and I return to the CT waiting area. I'm informed I can drink my second bottle. Lukewarm chalk drink serves as lunch. Now I wait. I wait until the lab results are in and just before 1:00PM I'm called into the CT prep area where I receive my second needle jab of the day, this time for the IV that will be used to inject the contrast dye during the scan.
I've often wondered how many scans I've had, and when the technician first brought out the paperwork and asked if I had a CT scan before, it reminded me to ask her to look up my record. She took my signed paperwork acknowledging that they can push the contrast dye through me, and returned, informing me that they have a record of 20 scans for me. At this point I've had 16 CT's, 2 Bone Scans and 2 real-time flouroscopy (for the IV Port insertions). This CT will be number 17. My first CT was in September of 2005 for kidney stone (still the Worst Pain Ever) and all the remaining scans were since 2010. Today's scan will be like the other 16: lie on the bed, cover up with a sheet to preserve my modesty as I pull my pants down. Both arms are extended straight overhead. The bed slides through scanner, a voice tells me to take a breath and hold, then as I return back to the starting position I can breathe normally. The process repeats a couple of times, and shortly I'm told I'm done. I can now put my pants back on and the IV is removed. I'll sport a nice bruise on my left arm for the next couple of weeks. Another scan is done, and I can resume enjoying my day. Plus I have to carve a pumpkin.
Halloween was a wet and cold affair, 12 kids trick or treating on a Saturday night was the best showing I've had for several years. This year I built fading RGB LED eyes for my scary vegetable. The following week, my non-chemo week saw days filled with sunshine, blue skies and temperatures in the low 70's (F that is). The nice weather energized or motivate me somewhat. I would create other circuit boards for my hobby of making clocks. More importantly, I would get out and ride my bike and walk. The latter activities were both the most tiring and most enjoyable. I felt almost like my old self again.
There were a number of social meetups, which I actually find more exhausting than bike riding or other physical activities. I enjoyed seeing folks from my workplace, and an old friend from University. I find that I no longer worry about my former workplace, I guess the 600+ folks at the job can get along fine without me, and I'm glad I can accept that. But they haven't forgotten me, and the last weekend before the next chemo a good friend from work and his son showed up at my house to clean my gutters and rake my lawn of the leaves. I am continually humbled by the friendships I've made from my work (and other) places over the years. I can truly say I'm lucky.
My fifth chemo was remarkably boring in terms of side effects. I was able to take charge of my post-chemo recovery in a strong fashion, able to do basically whatever I felt like doing. While my stamina and strength has never returned to the state I was in 6 months ago, I feel like I'm gaining a bit more stamina and strength. Walking is clearly in my future. One more day at a time.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XVI
I dream of walking. In my dreams I'm taking my long strides, cadence in time to the music I'm listening to on my Walkman. In these dreams I have energy, the sun is shining and the air is crisp. Then I wake up and, creakily roll out of bed and half stagger, half hobble to the bathroom. My dreams are so much better than reality.
Reality is that I have my fourth chemo of this second session on Tuesday October 13 at 8:30am. The day after Canadian Thanksgiving. As the Monday will be a holiday, it presumes that the blood work lab at the Cancer Centre won't be open. It wasn't, and the previous time I was told by the lab techs that I couldn't go on Friday. This meant I would have arrive sometime around 7am to get my blood work done on a Tuesday morning. So I went Friday instead. This is kosher as I had actually discussed this with my Oncologist the week prior during our assessment visit. Since my blood work -so far- has been relatively good, I had his consent to do a sedate Friday visit instead of a crazy Tuesday morning mad rush with all sorts of anxious patients wanting to get their sessions started as well.
My Friday visit was sedate, as expected. Maybe 15 minutes, most of it spent talking to an IT tech working on a label printer for the lab. I've used the same printers at work, and they're not my favourite devices. I did offer him the name of a local service company that are expert in those device, and he seemed grateful for the information. I'm so glad I don't have to work with those label printer anymore!
After blood work was the new tradition of coffee at a bakery. The bakery is a local fixture, famous for it's breads and desserts. The decor is step back to the 70's with the lunch-counter seating. The coffee is good, the desserts are better. The aroma is the best part, I wish I could hang out there all day. I would if they had wifi...
Tuesday morning, the beginning of Chemo #4 starts with the pill regimen. In addition to the usual ones I pop every morning, there's the chemo pill and the anti-anxiety pill. Perhaps I don't need the latter pill anymore, but take it anyway. Morning shower means morning shave, and I strive to make sure there's no chest hair around the port. My efforts will, as usual, prove to be in vain, but that's not to worry about until my pump is removed. As this chemo starts at 830am, we're on our way to the Cancer Centre.
Routine will be the watchword for this chemo. Arrive at the Cancer Centre on-time. Announce my arrival to the staff in the chemo suites. Get my blue-and-white wrist band with my name and other information on it. Wait. Called in. Seated at the chair. While the nurse is preparing the miles of tubes and IV bags, I glance at the paperwork from the lab. My blood work with the magic numbers are on it. Sitting in Chemo Chair #7, I read some of the vital stats:
WBC 4.1, RBC 4.07 L, HGB 131, PLT 121. White Blood Count, Red Blood count, Hemoglobin, Platelets. The RBC is marked L for Low, but it's not so bad to compromise my health. They are in line with the previous session, so I suppose I'm holding my own.
Before the port is attached my blood pressure and temperature are taken:
BP: 138/87, temp: 36C. I think my BP is high but am assured it's OK. All preliminaries complete, the port area is swabbed, and inserted. I'm off and dripping...
I'm given three more pills, and I got one shot during this session. I felt fine, and as is my newest trend, started playing online chess ('chemoterapy_now' at chess.com. Apparently I misspelled the name but hey it's unique, like me. ) Perhaps because of the pastime of playing chess, or the early start hour, my session seemed to end quickly. By 1230pm this tuckered terr was hobbling his way down the stairs (I refuse to use the elevator) ready to go home. And once at home it was couch time.
I don't feel too bad, this first day on the pump. I figured with the early start and my general tiredness I'd get to sleep early. I figured wrong.
I try to go to sleep around 1100pm-midnight. Drowsy after reading in bed, should be time to sleep, right? Lights out. Sleep won't come. Five AM I'm tossing and turning. I must have dozed off shortly afterwards, as my alarm woke me at 630am. I was completely soaked in sweat, something that also happened the first night of chemo during my previous session. I hope this side effect doesn't continue. I eventually drift back into sleep, the body conceding that my lights-out decision 8 hours earlier was the correct one. To avoid this tomorrow night, I resolve to take a sleeping pill.
My second 5FU pump day went as they usually do, not wholly bad. I believed I felt a bit better, which concerned me: I check the level of the 5FU pump. It's ironic that if you feel too good, then somethings not working. But the chemo balloon is slowly shrinking, so the pump is working. I'm still housebound, I don't go out during the three days of chemo, partly because I don't want to be with groups of people, partly because I still tire easily. The lack of consistent exercise is something I need to address in the coming weeks. However I occupy my day, I confirm my pump disconnect time (1020am tomorrow, the earlier the better in my opinion). I work on some small projects, and as has been my preoccupation of late, play bad 5 minute ("blitz") chess. It helps to pass the time and I don't think too much of how my future will play out. It's not the end result that worries me, but how I get there that depresses me. I'd rather play bad online chess.
I've only taken the RestorOlax once this session, on my first day of chemo. I want to avoid a repeat of last time, where I seemed to be in close orbit around the washroom. I've also noted that while I'm having lots of calories, lots of fibre, I'm simply not drinking enough water. After the 5FU pump is removed I noticed I was distinctly crampy for days. More water and yogurt helped remedy that problem. The actual problem is that water doesn't taste refreshing at all during chemo. I try some juices,Apple and Orange are OK, but strawberry banana isn't.
Unlike drinking, eating hasn't proved to be a problem during chemo. I find that while I still have cravings, I am eating my usual fare. I do find I don't need to eat much, portion control seems built-in for me during chemo. This isn't helped by the generousity of friends who show up at my doorstep with pies. Can't turn down a pie. Food aside, sleep is still a concern. My second night with the pump and I decide to take a sleeping pill. It helped somewhat. I would wake up the next morning,if not refreshed, but excited that my pump would be off early Thursday morning.
Thursday is always the important day for my 3 day chemo fun fest, as it's the day my 5FU pump is removed. Removal of the pump means I've finished another session, it means no worries about sleeping and rolling over the bottle. Most importantly, it means I can finally take a shower! Bathing is tricky business with a pump attached to your chest. For one thing, you can't get your port wet. And where exactly do you place the bottle -can't be in the tub. Suffice to say that freedom from the pump is a good thing. My freedom arrived shortly before 1030 this time. In a few days I would begin to feel better, I hoped.
Even with the pump removed, I found that I had some small but significant issues afterwards. The amount of RestorOLax and lack of hydration over the last three days left me crampy. The only solution was drink lots of water, and keep drinking. I find that Activia yogurt helps restore me to my normal rhythms. However it was my gums that caused me the most distress this time around.
For whatever reason, brushing is a very ginger affair. I already use an ultrasoft toothbrush, but the bristles still jab my gums. And I bleed. It's disconcerting to think that brushing your teeth can fill your sink with blood. The trick I've learned is run hot water over the bristles first, as this helps soften them. The other is to brush very lightly. We're not sanding the finish off an oak table, no force is required.
I would later learn from one of my nurses that I should use a soft toothbrush that are used for very young children, and discard the brushes after every chemo session. For now I continue to be very cautious about brushing. Other than those small issues, I felt fine. In fact on the Friday after my pump disconnect, I did something I hadn't done in a long time: Make a PCB!
Friday night for whatever reason I felt I had energy to work on my electronics projects. Particularly I like to build small clocks, and these small clocks are soldered together on a home made printed circuit board (PCB).
Now I've made dozens of PCB's, and my usual method is to use the Toner Transfer Technique. Simply put, you print an image via a laser printer and iron it onto a piece of copper board. Easier said than done, as I had not made anything for the past ten months. I spent a good four hours with this project, most of it in my basement workshop. I was exhausted, but happy. There's something about creating, about accomplishing a goal that brings comfort to me. Eventually these will be clocks, but that's for another day.
I would build on this electronics hobby over the next week, enthusiastically working on, you guessed it, more clocks.
This binge of electronics building helps me with my day to day activities. But the best was yet to come: warm October weather.
With me free of the pump I was able to get outside and enjoy the Fall colours. I could walk, albeit slowly with my penguin-like gait. I rode my bike. I walked some more. Walking is my freedom. Since August I've used a knee brace for my right knee. This week I've discontinued using the brace, and have found some small ability to walk with a normal stride, albeit slowly and hugely energy draining. I simply have no stamina. However we walk to the local Tim's coffee shop, where I can rest before we return home. Those days when I was able to walk even short distances made a huge difference in my sleeping patterns - I slept well through the night, without the aid of pills. Walking is great, I want to do MORE!
My week off the pump before my next chemo was my best so far since I started in September. I found I had some initiative to do things I used to do, and more importantly, the strength to get out of the house and enjoy life. In a few days I'll do chemo #5 (or 17, depending when we start counting). Until then I can enjoy life, one day at a time.
Reality is that I have my fourth chemo of this second session on Tuesday October 13 at 8:30am. The day after Canadian Thanksgiving. As the Monday will be a holiday, it presumes that the blood work lab at the Cancer Centre won't be open. It wasn't, and the previous time I was told by the lab techs that I couldn't go on Friday. This meant I would have arrive sometime around 7am to get my blood work done on a Tuesday morning. So I went Friday instead. This is kosher as I had actually discussed this with my Oncologist the week prior during our assessment visit. Since my blood work -so far- has been relatively good, I had his consent to do a sedate Friday visit instead of a crazy Tuesday morning mad rush with all sorts of anxious patients wanting to get their sessions started as well.
My Friday visit was sedate, as expected. Maybe 15 minutes, most of it spent talking to an IT tech working on a label printer for the lab. I've used the same printers at work, and they're not my favourite devices. I did offer him the name of a local service company that are expert in those device, and he seemed grateful for the information. I'm so glad I don't have to work with those label printer anymore!
After blood work was the new tradition of coffee at a bakery. The bakery is a local fixture, famous for it's breads and desserts. The decor is step back to the 70's with the lunch-counter seating. The coffee is good, the desserts are better. The aroma is the best part, I wish I could hang out there all day. I would if they had wifi...
Tuesday morning, the beginning of Chemo #4 starts with the pill regimen. In addition to the usual ones I pop every morning, there's the chemo pill and the anti-anxiety pill. Perhaps I don't need the latter pill anymore, but take it anyway. Morning shower means morning shave, and I strive to make sure there's no chest hair around the port. My efforts will, as usual, prove to be in vain, but that's not to worry about until my pump is removed. As this chemo starts at 830am, we're on our way to the Cancer Centre.
Routine will be the watchword for this chemo. Arrive at the Cancer Centre on-time. Announce my arrival to the staff in the chemo suites. Get my blue-and-white wrist band with my name and other information on it. Wait. Called in. Seated at the chair. While the nurse is preparing the miles of tubes and IV bags, I glance at the paperwork from the lab. My blood work with the magic numbers are on it. Sitting in Chemo Chair #7, I read some of the vital stats:
WBC 4.1, RBC 4.07 L, HGB 131, PLT 121. White Blood Count, Red Blood count, Hemoglobin, Platelets. The RBC is marked L for Low, but it's not so bad to compromise my health. They are in line with the previous session, so I suppose I'm holding my own.
Before the port is attached my blood pressure and temperature are taken:
BP: 138/87, temp: 36C. I think my BP is high but am assured it's OK. All preliminaries complete, the port area is swabbed, and inserted. I'm off and dripping...
I'm given three more pills, and I got one shot during this session. I felt fine, and as is my newest trend, started playing online chess ('chemoterapy_now' at chess.com. Apparently I misspelled the name but hey it's unique, like me. ) Perhaps because of the pastime of playing chess, or the early start hour, my session seemed to end quickly. By 1230pm this tuckered terr was hobbling his way down the stairs (I refuse to use the elevator) ready to go home. And once at home it was couch time.
I don't feel too bad, this first day on the pump. I figured with the early start and my general tiredness I'd get to sleep early. I figured wrong.
I try to go to sleep around 1100pm-midnight. Drowsy after reading in bed, should be time to sleep, right? Lights out. Sleep won't come. Five AM I'm tossing and turning. I must have dozed off shortly afterwards, as my alarm woke me at 630am. I was completely soaked in sweat, something that also happened the first night of chemo during my previous session. I hope this side effect doesn't continue. I eventually drift back into sleep, the body conceding that my lights-out decision 8 hours earlier was the correct one. To avoid this tomorrow night, I resolve to take a sleeping pill.
My second 5FU pump day went as they usually do, not wholly bad. I believed I felt a bit better, which concerned me: I check the level of the 5FU pump. It's ironic that if you feel too good, then somethings not working. But the chemo balloon is slowly shrinking, so the pump is working. I'm still housebound, I don't go out during the three days of chemo, partly because I don't want to be with groups of people, partly because I still tire easily. The lack of consistent exercise is something I need to address in the coming weeks. However I occupy my day, I confirm my pump disconnect time (1020am tomorrow, the earlier the better in my opinion). I work on some small projects, and as has been my preoccupation of late, play bad 5 minute ("blitz") chess. It helps to pass the time and I don't think too much of how my future will play out. It's not the end result that worries me, but how I get there that depresses me. I'd rather play bad online chess.
I've only taken the RestorOlax once this session, on my first day of chemo. I want to avoid a repeat of last time, where I seemed to be in close orbit around the washroom. I've also noted that while I'm having lots of calories, lots of fibre, I'm simply not drinking enough water. After the 5FU pump is removed I noticed I was distinctly crampy for days. More water and yogurt helped remedy that problem. The actual problem is that water doesn't taste refreshing at all during chemo. I try some juices,Apple and Orange are OK, but strawberry banana isn't.
Unlike drinking, eating hasn't proved to be a problem during chemo. I find that while I still have cravings, I am eating my usual fare. I do find I don't need to eat much, portion control seems built-in for me during chemo. This isn't helped by the generousity of friends who show up at my doorstep with pies. Can't turn down a pie. Food aside, sleep is still a concern. My second night with the pump and I decide to take a sleeping pill. It helped somewhat. I would wake up the next morning,if not refreshed, but excited that my pump would be off early Thursday morning.
Thursday is always the important day for my 3 day chemo fun fest, as it's the day my 5FU pump is removed. Removal of the pump means I've finished another session, it means no worries about sleeping and rolling over the bottle. Most importantly, it means I can finally take a shower! Bathing is tricky business with a pump attached to your chest. For one thing, you can't get your port wet. And where exactly do you place the bottle -can't be in the tub. Suffice to say that freedom from the pump is a good thing. My freedom arrived shortly before 1030 this time. In a few days I would begin to feel better, I hoped.
Even with the pump removed, I found that I had some small but significant issues afterwards. The amount of RestorOLax and lack of hydration over the last three days left me crampy. The only solution was drink lots of water, and keep drinking. I find that Activia yogurt helps restore me to my normal rhythms. However it was my gums that caused me the most distress this time around.
For whatever reason, brushing is a very ginger affair. I already use an ultrasoft toothbrush, but the bristles still jab my gums. And I bleed. It's disconcerting to think that brushing your teeth can fill your sink with blood. The trick I've learned is run hot water over the bristles first, as this helps soften them. The other is to brush very lightly. We're not sanding the finish off an oak table, no force is required.
I would later learn from one of my nurses that I should use a soft toothbrush that are used for very young children, and discard the brushes after every chemo session. For now I continue to be very cautious about brushing. Other than those small issues, I felt fine. In fact on the Friday after my pump disconnect, I did something I hadn't done in a long time: Make a PCB!
Friday night for whatever reason I felt I had energy to work on my electronics projects. Particularly I like to build small clocks, and these small clocks are soldered together on a home made printed circuit board (PCB).
 | |
| PIC digital clock PCB x4 |
I would build on this electronics hobby over the next week, enthusiastically working on, you guessed it, more clocks.
 | |
| DS1307 + Arduino Pro Mini |
 | |
| Ojibway Fall colours by the pond |
My week off the pump before my next chemo was my best so far since I started in September. I found I had some initiative to do things I used to do, and more importantly, the strength to get out of the house and enjoy life. In a few days I'll do chemo #5 (or 17, depending when we start counting). Until then I can enjoy life, one day at a time.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XV
My chemo schedule is every second Tuesday. I require blood work prior, to make sure that I'm not getting too sick. So on the Friday before my third chemo I went to get this chore over with. However I was informed by the lab staff that I was way too early. It seems that they prefer a 72 hour window, and felt that my results would be invalid at this point. With nothing else to do I left. Monday I was back again, waiting my turn and fulfilling my obligation as well as a couple of test tubes of my blood. If there were any concerns with the results of these tests, I'd find out tomorrow, the morning of next chemo.
Tuesday morning Sept. 29th and my morning routine starts. Pills, for the arthritis. Pills, for the allergies. Pills, for the chemo. Breakfast is a whole bunch of Fibre1 cereal and fruits. Washed down with glasses of water. Before I leave the house, one more pill -to keep me calm and help me manage my emotions during this treatment. Arriving at the Cancer Centre I walk up the the stairs to the chemotherapy lounge. Despite the brace on my right knee, I walk better up stairs than on level ground. I let the staff at the chemo suite know I've arrived. A band with my patient ID and other information is loosely wrapped around my wrist. Back to the lounge for more waiting. Eventually my name is called, and I hobble as best as I can to the room where I'll spend the next few hours getting chemically whacked.. My nurse confirms my name and date of birth as I'm being brought into the suite, and I'm assigned to a chair.
The Lorezapam must be working, I feel pretty calm as my nurse preps my IVPort for the start of treatment. As part of my usual preparation I've shaved a substantial amount of chest hair around the IV port area. The area is swabbed with what I assume is a disinfectant. The moment of truth begins with a brief pinprick, and session number three begins. More pills, I'm given three Decadron to help control any nausea symptoms. That and a shot later that morning to make sure I don't suffer a repeat of my first chemo.
I always feel fine the first hour or so. I get comfortable, set up my laptop go online and send a few emails. Lately I've taken to playing 5 minute online chess games with people around the world. My game sucks, but it helps pass the time. My energy and concentration are dropping the longer the session runs. It's now noon and what I call "chemo lethargy" is setting in. There's no desire for me to do anything but close my eyes at this point. Yet there is a nice surprise for me this time: one of my pharmacy friends stops by to see how I'm doing. Thoughtful as always, she has a nice card with words of courage within. She and I have had similar experiences, and while our paths diverge, it's always comforting to share with someone else who's gone through this experience. The words are not hollow sentiment, but a source of strength.
Shortly after 2PM my session is finished. I leave with my 5FU pump attached and carrying an extra roll of tape -my nurse was concerned that enough chest hair was being covered. I'm too tired to care, I just want to go home
First day with the 5FU pump is not too bad, I eat when I feel hungry, but have to force myself to drink liquids. Water doesn't seem as refreshing and never quenches my thirst during this time. This week I'm trying various juice boxes to introduce some variety. Apple juice tastes funny, but it's still better than the Banana Strawberry concoction, too sweet for my taste. In general during chemo I prefer the tart or acidic foods, something soft to munch versus crunchy. A noticeable side effect that continues even when the pump is removed are that my gums are very tender. Even my ultrasoft toothbrush, gingerly applied, leaves me spitting blood into the sink. So my new trick is to first rinse the brush in hot water, making it softer and pliable. This help. I sporadically gargle that old standby: saltwater and baking soda, although my dental hygienist wonders at how effective that is. I should inquire with my dentist for chemo-safe mouthwashes, as the typical over-the-counter mouthwashes and rinses are contra-indicated. I don't experience any nausea, but my stomach feels unsettled, a nervousness that's not placated by eating or drinking. I chalk this up to the 5FU side effect.
Fortunately no other major side effects seem to pop up this round. My goal now is to endure the next 46 hours until the pump is removed, and see how quickly I recover. I do confess that my recovery is longer than it once was. Back in 2010 I could almost guarantee being 'my old self' with 24 hours of the pump removal. However it's five years on, and my other physical ailments -the arthritis and knee problems, seem to conspire in keeping my physical activity to a minimum. This time I seem to have managed the side effects better, even with limited exercise -too cold this time to go bike riding, but next week promises to be the best that Fall can offer. For now I endure.
And the first night home with the pump I find I can't fall asleep at night. When I first arrived at home I took a nap, I was tired. Rested on the couch all day. Then when it's time for bed 11PM turns into 1AM, and then turns into 5AM. I still can't sleep. I resolve to take a sleeping pill if this happens again.
I basically drift through my second 5FU pump day, playing bad online chess, trying to read up on my electronics hobby. Things that used to hold my attention seem to require far more cerebral effort than I can muster. There's a lot of channel flipping, fortunately, there's a whack of DVD and YouTube entertainment. But I really don't want to be a couch potato, I want to do something. Later that night around 11PM I take my sleeping pill. We'll see how well I sleep tonight.
Third day of the chemo regimen, and I've noticed I slept for approximately 6 hours. While not refreshed as I had hoped, it was uninterrupted sleep. And today I have a scheduled disconnect time of 11AM, the earlier the better in my opinion. Aside from the sleep, this chemo has been calm, no serious side effects save the difficulty sleeping. The ResoroLax and Fibre1 are doing what they need to do, and as I would find out, it would keep working for several days after I stopped taking the RestoroLax. Something to keep in mind if you are planning to go out.
I get my 5FU pump removed by the CCAC nurses, who are trained in the art of Chemo-Fu. This explains their ninja-like appearance when they remove the pump: mask, goggles, double gloves, and the gown. I get a piece of paper strategically placed under the port so drops can't splash on my bare skin. And as always, the CCAC nurses have to gingerly remove the miles of tape that keeps the pump attached to my chest via those few remaining bits of chest hair. I should be used to having it ripped off by now, but it still hurts. I'm such a wimp.
Pump free before noon, and I am hungry. We go to Arby's and I'm craving a Beef 'n Cheddar with curly fries. Probably not the most nutritious meal for a colon cancer patient, but I want to satisfy the cravings. Takes two Beef 'n Cheddars for that, and that's about 1.5 of a B&C too much. Through the days of the pump it's fibre this, and fibre that. Sometimes I just want to satisfy the cravings, feel like my old self, forget that I have cancer.
The weather is getting marginally better through the week, and my non-chemo days looks promising. I'm able to get out of the house, enjoy the things like sipping my coffee by the river, going for short bike rides, and of course, visiting more doctors.
My recovery week has two appointments with my Oncologists. One is with the Radiation guy, the other with the Chemo guy. Both are located in the same facility, and both have me scheduled on different day. The chemo guys is first, and he's basically saying that if the CT shows the chemo is working, I can get more chemo. Yay. Perhaps I can arrange a break so it's not every two weeks. The most important part of the conversation was that it's my quality of life, my choice of what and when to take treatment. We don't discuss time lines, as it's futile to think about it at this stage.
My radiation guy was next. Essentially he's satisfied that the treatment to control the metastasis in my left leg worked -I'm not experiencing horrible leg pain and no fractures. If the CT I'm going to have in a few months shows anything else, I'm sure I'll hear about it. In the meantime he's discharging me, leaving my primary care with the chemo doc. One less doctor works for me. They all treat me pretty well, but I'd rather have one point of contact for my treatment.
It takes me several days to recover, careful of what I eat, as the RestorOLax seems to be working overtime. I'm not drinking enough water these days. I find that I don't have the energy or stamina for many activities, and some cramping whenever I eat. Those effects take days to go away. Gradually things begin to taste as they should. I still sleep no more than 4 or five hours, but at last I can rest. Perhaps it's the Avastin's workings, as I seem to bleed easier. The sink is bloody when I brush. Sneezing often produces bloody tissues.
Despite these annoyances I survive, I try to do more than endure. And in two weeks, I'll do this again.
Tuesday morning Sept. 29th and my morning routine starts. Pills, for the arthritis. Pills, for the allergies. Pills, for the chemo. Breakfast is a whole bunch of Fibre1 cereal and fruits. Washed down with glasses of water. Before I leave the house, one more pill -to keep me calm and help me manage my emotions during this treatment. Arriving at the Cancer Centre I walk up the the stairs to the chemotherapy lounge. Despite the brace on my right knee, I walk better up stairs than on level ground. I let the staff at the chemo suite know I've arrived. A band with my patient ID and other information is loosely wrapped around my wrist. Back to the lounge for more waiting. Eventually my name is called, and I hobble as best as I can to the room where I'll spend the next few hours getting chemically whacked.. My nurse confirms my name and date of birth as I'm being brought into the suite, and I'm assigned to a chair.
The Lorezapam must be working, I feel pretty calm as my nurse preps my IVPort for the start of treatment. As part of my usual preparation I've shaved a substantial amount of chest hair around the IV port area. The area is swabbed with what I assume is a disinfectant. The moment of truth begins with a brief pinprick, and session number three begins. More pills, I'm given three Decadron to help control any nausea symptoms. That and a shot later that morning to make sure I don't suffer a repeat of my first chemo.
I always feel fine the first hour or so. I get comfortable, set up my laptop go online and send a few emails. Lately I've taken to playing 5 minute online chess games with people around the world. My game sucks, but it helps pass the time. My energy and concentration are dropping the longer the session runs. It's now noon and what I call "chemo lethargy" is setting in. There's no desire for me to do anything but close my eyes at this point. Yet there is a nice surprise for me this time: one of my pharmacy friends stops by to see how I'm doing. Thoughtful as always, she has a nice card with words of courage within. She and I have had similar experiences, and while our paths diverge, it's always comforting to share with someone else who's gone through this experience. The words are not hollow sentiment, but a source of strength.
Shortly after 2PM my session is finished. I leave with my 5FU pump attached and carrying an extra roll of tape -my nurse was concerned that enough chest hair was being covered. I'm too tired to care, I just want to go home
First day with the 5FU pump is not too bad, I eat when I feel hungry, but have to force myself to drink liquids. Water doesn't seem as refreshing and never quenches my thirst during this time. This week I'm trying various juice boxes to introduce some variety. Apple juice tastes funny, but it's still better than the Banana Strawberry concoction, too sweet for my taste. In general during chemo I prefer the tart or acidic foods, something soft to munch versus crunchy. A noticeable side effect that continues even when the pump is removed are that my gums are very tender. Even my ultrasoft toothbrush, gingerly applied, leaves me spitting blood into the sink. So my new trick is to first rinse the brush in hot water, making it softer and pliable. This help. I sporadically gargle that old standby: saltwater and baking soda, although my dental hygienist wonders at how effective that is. I should inquire with my dentist for chemo-safe mouthwashes, as the typical over-the-counter mouthwashes and rinses are contra-indicated. I don't experience any nausea, but my stomach feels unsettled, a nervousness that's not placated by eating or drinking. I chalk this up to the 5FU side effect.
Fortunately no other major side effects seem to pop up this round. My goal now is to endure the next 46 hours until the pump is removed, and see how quickly I recover. I do confess that my recovery is longer than it once was. Back in 2010 I could almost guarantee being 'my old self' with 24 hours of the pump removal. However it's five years on, and my other physical ailments -the arthritis and knee problems, seem to conspire in keeping my physical activity to a minimum. This time I seem to have managed the side effects better, even with limited exercise -too cold this time to go bike riding, but next week promises to be the best that Fall can offer. For now I endure.
And the first night home with the pump I find I can't fall asleep at night. When I first arrived at home I took a nap, I was tired. Rested on the couch all day. Then when it's time for bed 11PM turns into 1AM, and then turns into 5AM. I still can't sleep. I resolve to take a sleeping pill if this happens again.
I basically drift through my second 5FU pump day, playing bad online chess, trying to read up on my electronics hobby. Things that used to hold my attention seem to require far more cerebral effort than I can muster. There's a lot of channel flipping, fortunately, there's a whack of DVD and YouTube entertainment. But I really don't want to be a couch potato, I want to do something. Later that night around 11PM I take my sleeping pill. We'll see how well I sleep tonight.
Third day of the chemo regimen, and I've noticed I slept for approximately 6 hours. While not refreshed as I had hoped, it was uninterrupted sleep. And today I have a scheduled disconnect time of 11AM, the earlier the better in my opinion. Aside from the sleep, this chemo has been calm, no serious side effects save the difficulty sleeping. The ResoroLax and Fibre1 are doing what they need to do, and as I would find out, it would keep working for several days after I stopped taking the RestoroLax. Something to keep in mind if you are planning to go out.
I get my 5FU pump removed by the CCAC nurses, who are trained in the art of Chemo-Fu. This explains their ninja-like appearance when they remove the pump: mask, goggles, double gloves, and the gown. I get a piece of paper strategically placed under the port so drops can't splash on my bare skin. And as always, the CCAC nurses have to gingerly remove the miles of tape that keeps the pump attached to my chest via those few remaining bits of chest hair. I should be used to having it ripped off by now, but it still hurts. I'm such a wimp.
Pump free before noon, and I am hungry. We go to Arby's and I'm craving a Beef 'n Cheddar with curly fries. Probably not the most nutritious meal for a colon cancer patient, but I want to satisfy the cravings. Takes two Beef 'n Cheddars for that, and that's about 1.5 of a B&C too much. Through the days of the pump it's fibre this, and fibre that. Sometimes I just want to satisfy the cravings, feel like my old self, forget that I have cancer.
The weather is getting marginally better through the week, and my non-chemo days looks promising. I'm able to get out of the house, enjoy the things like sipping my coffee by the river, going for short bike rides, and of course, visiting more doctors.
My recovery week has two appointments with my Oncologists. One is with the Radiation guy, the other with the Chemo guy. Both are located in the same facility, and both have me scheduled on different day. The chemo guys is first, and he's basically saying that if the CT shows the chemo is working, I can get more chemo. Yay. Perhaps I can arrange a break so it's not every two weeks. The most important part of the conversation was that it's my quality of life, my choice of what and when to take treatment. We don't discuss time lines, as it's futile to think about it at this stage.
My radiation guy was next. Essentially he's satisfied that the treatment to control the metastasis in my left leg worked -I'm not experiencing horrible leg pain and no fractures. If the CT I'm going to have in a few months shows anything else, I'm sure I'll hear about it. In the meantime he's discharging me, leaving my primary care with the chemo doc. One less doctor works for me. They all treat me pretty well, but I'd rather have one point of contact for my treatment.
It takes me several days to recover, careful of what I eat, as the RestorOLax seems to be working overtime. I'm not drinking enough water these days. I find that I don't have the energy or stamina for many activities, and some cramping whenever I eat. Those effects take days to go away. Gradually things begin to taste as they should. I still sleep no more than 4 or five hours, but at last I can rest. Perhaps it's the Avastin's workings, as I seem to bleed easier. The sink is bloody when I brush. Sneezing often produces bloody tissues.
Despite these annoyances I survive, I try to do more than endure. And in two weeks, I'll do this again.
Monday, September 28, 2015
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XIV
Tuesday September 15 was the second round of chemo, or the 14th if you count from when I first started in 2010. My return to chemotherapy two weeks prior was probably the hardest session I've ever had in my life, and caused me to seriously question my choice of treatment. With guidance from my doctors, support from my family and friends, I decided to focus on what I did wrong and attempt to correct my past mistakes.
To start with, my Oncologist addressed my apprehension about returning to chemo. For this I was prescribed a mild relaxant. Slip it under my tongue before leaving for my session and it would calm me down. Then there was my diet - I concentrated on a high-fibre diet (a gift from a friend in a similar situation was a box of Fibre1 cereal). More fruits and vegetables. More water. Exercising, despite my poor ability to walk was also a goal. I would bike more, and another friend would loan me her step-through bike so I would not strain my still-sore right knee. But the biggest change was one of acceptance, that this indeed would be my new life, that I am the one that needs to adapt if I am to continue my journey.
So far that morning I had eaten breakfast, taken my pre-chemo meds, and was so far not feeling anxious or sick. Already this was better than the previous time. My visit this time would see me remain in my chair, without any severe nausea. Uneventful for the most part, I sat patiently and watched as the various IV bags were changed. I still have Avastin as part of my therapy, and that alone added an hour to the process. My session had started roughly around 10:00AM, and I was finally ready to leave by 3:30PM, with my 5FU pump firmly attached and swathes of tape to hold it on. Apparently no matter how much of my chest hair I shave, it wouldn't be enough to escape the grasping, clinging tape.
I'm listless and lack any sort of energy or ambition by the time I arrive at home. However there's the feeling of satisfaction for this round, I didn't get sick, I don't feel emotionally overwhelmed. I still have two and half days to go before the 5FU pump is removed, then several days afterwards to recover. I hope I recover quicker. These sessions are similar to my previous ones five years ago, but not exactly the same. Five years ago I could walk without pain. This time I hobble and simply have no strength for all but the simplest activities.
As such, my activities consist mostly of being on the Internet, playing truly bad chess online, trying to figure out bits and pieces of electronics for my hobby. But I don't have the ability to concentrate very well. I'm tired and still don't sleep very long. Even so this sleep is better than last time. Previously I couldn't rest without feeling agitated, exhausted and unable to determine if I had actually slept. Part of that was my decision to not take some of the chemo meds supplied. Some side effects were jitteriness and constipation. This session, with the help of an aid called RestorLax I was able to manage my process much better. A higher fibre diet and more liquids helped. I was cautiously optimistic that I would fare better this session after only one day. For a change, I would be right in my assumption.
However not all was perfect. Usually I receive a call by the next day of my therapy as to when to report to the CCAC office for my 5FU pump disconnect. On a hunch I called the CCAC office, and they had not received any paperwork informing them of this action. I then proceeded to call the Cancer Center, informing them of this oversight. Late that afternoon I received my call with an appointment time for the next day. I was managing my condition.
Further management meant taking my arthritis medication -a pill and an ointment- so that my knees wouldn't cause me so much grief. It's all about finding comfort in an uncomfortable situation. Since I wasn't feeling any nausea and was eating fairly well, I opted to not take some of the chemo pills that had side effects of jitteriness and constipation. Note that this chemo causes constipation regardless, so management of this situation is important. However there would be other side effects, noticeable once the pump and was disconnected.
The disconnect happened Thursday afternoon. This will be slightly different, as I am to be part of a training session. My nurses are garbed in mask, gown and double-gloved. I have a mask and sterile cloth on my chest to protect my skin. I wait patiently as a good guinea pig should. As always the key to this process is something called a 'good blood return'. Basically blood is pulled out via the IVPort and pushed back in, demonstrating that the port is still functional. I leave the clinic free of the pump. There's now a shower in my future. Two chemo sessions down, four more to go. A CT would awaits me at the end of the sixth session to evaluate my condition and see if this treatment is working. But I don't look that far ahead anymore, my horizon is today and tomorrow.
With the pump now removed I would slowly regain some of my energy. I rode my bike when I felt I had the stamina. Rides of 20 minutes or less would be the norm, sometimes more, sometimes less. The duration was mostly dictated by my right knee. While my normal activities slowly returned, another chemo side effect presented itself: hair loss.
During my first bouts of chemo back in 2010 I had experienced some minor hair loss. At that time I went for a haircut to 'thin out the herd', and that seemed effective. My hair didn't seem to fall out, but didn't really grow either. This time my hair was falling out in rather large amounts. The bathtub after a shower looked as if a fur carpet had exploded. There was hair everywhere. Time for drastic measures. This haircut saw me with the shortest cut I've had since I was ten years old and my dad still cut my hair.
To start with, my Oncologist addressed my apprehension about returning to chemo. For this I was prescribed a mild relaxant. Slip it under my tongue before leaving for my session and it would calm me down. Then there was my diet - I concentrated on a high-fibre diet (a gift from a friend in a similar situation was a box of Fibre1 cereal). More fruits and vegetables. More water. Exercising, despite my poor ability to walk was also a goal. I would bike more, and another friend would loan me her step-through bike so I would not strain my still-sore right knee. But the biggest change was one of acceptance, that this indeed would be my new life, that I am the one that needs to adapt if I am to continue my journey.
So far that morning I had eaten breakfast, taken my pre-chemo meds, and was so far not feeling anxious or sick. Already this was better than the previous time. My visit this time would see me remain in my chair, without any severe nausea. Uneventful for the most part, I sat patiently and watched as the various IV bags were changed. I still have Avastin as part of my therapy, and that alone added an hour to the process. My session had started roughly around 10:00AM, and I was finally ready to leave by 3:30PM, with my 5FU pump firmly attached and swathes of tape to hold it on. Apparently no matter how much of my chest hair I shave, it wouldn't be enough to escape the grasping, clinging tape.
I'm listless and lack any sort of energy or ambition by the time I arrive at home. However there's the feeling of satisfaction for this round, I didn't get sick, I don't feel emotionally overwhelmed. I still have two and half days to go before the 5FU pump is removed, then several days afterwards to recover. I hope I recover quicker. These sessions are similar to my previous ones five years ago, but not exactly the same. Five years ago I could walk without pain. This time I hobble and simply have no strength for all but the simplest activities.
As such, my activities consist mostly of being on the Internet, playing truly bad chess online, trying to figure out bits and pieces of electronics for my hobby. But I don't have the ability to concentrate very well. I'm tired and still don't sleep very long. Even so this sleep is better than last time. Previously I couldn't rest without feeling agitated, exhausted and unable to determine if I had actually slept. Part of that was my decision to not take some of the chemo meds supplied. Some side effects were jitteriness and constipation. This session, with the help of an aid called RestorLax I was able to manage my process much better. A higher fibre diet and more liquids helped. I was cautiously optimistic that I would fare better this session after only one day. For a change, I would be right in my assumption.
However not all was perfect. Usually I receive a call by the next day of my therapy as to when to report to the CCAC office for my 5FU pump disconnect. On a hunch I called the CCAC office, and they had not received any paperwork informing them of this action. I then proceeded to call the Cancer Center, informing them of this oversight. Late that afternoon I received my call with an appointment time for the next day. I was managing my condition.
Further management meant taking my arthritis medication -a pill and an ointment- so that my knees wouldn't cause me so much grief. It's all about finding comfort in an uncomfortable situation. Since I wasn't feeling any nausea and was eating fairly well, I opted to not take some of the chemo pills that had side effects of jitteriness and constipation. Note that this chemo causes constipation regardless, so management of this situation is important. However there would be other side effects, noticeable once the pump and was disconnected.
The disconnect happened Thursday afternoon. This will be slightly different, as I am to be part of a training session. My nurses are garbed in mask, gown and double-gloved. I have a mask and sterile cloth on my chest to protect my skin. I wait patiently as a good guinea pig should. As always the key to this process is something called a 'good blood return'. Basically blood is pulled out via the IVPort and pushed back in, demonstrating that the port is still functional. I leave the clinic free of the pump. There's now a shower in my future. Two chemo sessions down, four more to go. A CT would awaits me at the end of the sixth session to evaluate my condition and see if this treatment is working. But I don't look that far ahead anymore, my horizon is today and tomorrow.
With the pump now removed I would slowly regain some of my energy. I rode my bike when I felt I had the stamina. Rides of 20 minutes or less would be the norm, sometimes more, sometimes less. The duration was mostly dictated by my right knee. While my normal activities slowly returned, another chemo side effect presented itself: hair loss.
During my first bouts of chemo back in 2010 I had experienced some minor hair loss. At that time I went for a haircut to 'thin out the herd', and that seemed effective. My hair didn't seem to fall out, but didn't really grow either. This time my hair was falling out in rather large amounts. The bathtub after a shower looked as if a fur carpet had exploded. There was hair everywhere. Time for drastic measures. This haircut saw me with the shortest cut I've had since I was ten years old and my dad still cut my hair.
So five days after this latest session I'm pump free, and apparently hair-free as well. As the week progressed I felt better. Days were spent just trying to enjoy life -bike ride, sitting at the river watching the ships, working on small projects. There would be another doctor' appointment, this one with a specialist to look at my right knee.
Compared to my last session this one was infinitely better. I may not be able to walk worth a damn for now, but my journey continues.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XIII
My only therapeutic option to mitigate the growing cancer in my left lung is chemotherapy, and it's strictly palliative. I would receive the same treatment that I first had back in May of 2010. Veteran of a dozen chemo sessions, I knew it would be hard but had the confidence that I would manage as I always did. That confidence would soon be broken, my emotional armour completely destroyed. I would question my decision to choose this treatment path, and, bitterly wonder if any of this was worth it.
That first day of September I had woken up early. I ate my usual breakfast of cereal, banana and blueberries. But something was not right Within an hour, before I had even left the house I was throwing up. This was the harbinger of my day to come.
I arrive at the Cancer Centre by 8:30am, shaky but feeling braver than I should have. The chemo room is as I remembered it. My nurse brings me to my chair -Number 7, must be a lucky chair I think. Preliminaries consist of going over the procedure, asking me questions from the ESAS survey. My scores for anxiety were concerning my nurse. But the process continued, and soon I found my shirt open, my chest being swabbed, and the moment of truth: with the nurse telling me to breathe out, the needle was pushed into my port. My thirteenth chemotherapy had formally started.
I was feeling OK, figuring the rest was just like before: get my computer out, sit back, wait for the pump, go home and rest. Every assumption I made from then on for the rest of the week would be wrong. It began with the anti-nausea meds.
I was given a pill to take that would help settle my stomach and thwart nausea. At the advice of my nurse, a preventative shot was also administered. Then another. As the hours grew I found I was cold, and asked for a blanket. My nurse put a cold cloth on my forehead. I was chilled and sniffling. That I was going to get sick was now inevitable. I told my nurse what was going to happen, and rather than scaring the patients by using the styrofoam cup at my lap, he helped me to the washroom. There I threw up for the second time that day. It took a while before I finally emerged, weak and shaky. Instead of going back to the chair however I was guided to a bed. For the first time ever, I was now in a room and given a bed to lie upon. Clearly my chemo was going badly.
But my ordeal was only beginning. Several nurses would check on me, discussing my nausea concerns. I still felt sick. Once more my shaky legs -I'm wearing a knee brace for a torn lateral meniscus - help me guide my attached IV pole to go back to the washroom, where I expunge the yellow bile that the chemo has put into my stomach. I return to my bed, but seeing the concern on the faces of the nurses tells me I'm in bad shape. Drastic measures -I'm put on a Gravol IV drip, and finally my nausea passes. Drowsiness causes my eyes to close. I rest, and I feel better. Ironically that would be the best rest I would have for the remainder of the week.
Because this was the first of a new round of chemotherapy, I was prescribed Avastin, to inhibit the growth of new blood vessels. Basically this cuts the supply routes for tumours. It's given in declining doses per session. As this is my first round, I had a 90 minute infusion of this drug. The last part of my treatment would be the attachment of the 5FU pump. I had brought my carrier with me -I had kept it all these years. Putting it on for the first time was somewhat bemusing, as the waist size was still set from my last session five years ago. I needed to let it out somewhat for today. With the pump on me, and three more bottles of medication to bring home, I was ready to leave. I had arrived at 8:30am, and by the time I left the Cancer Center is was nearly 3:15pm. It was a long day. And it would only get longer.
I would wear the 5FU pump for 46 hours. In theory it gets installed Tuesday, and Thursday afternoon it's removed. All I have to do is endure. For the first day, I was tired and listless, but couldn't really sleep. Only later that night would I find out how elusive sleep, and more importantly, rest, really was. I couldn't get comfortable, a side effect of the chemo was that every two hours I needed to use the bathroom. But due to my bad knees it was painful to hobble to the bathroom, using a cane. At time's I'd resort to crutches. Despite air conditioning it was hot. The entire region was under a heat alert for days, the humidity and heat cruelly confining me indoors for nearly the entire week. But the lack of sleep was more than fatiguing - I couldn't tell if I was sleeping or having waking dreams. The dreams were always agitated, disturbing and exceedingly exhausting. The only other time I've experienced this was when I was under major anaesthetic for my past surgeries. I was getting scared that I couldn't cope.
I was exhausted. And it got worse. I was restless, in pain from my knees. There was no position of comfort -on the bed, couch, chair. Desperate for any kind of comfort I tried sleeping on the floor with quilts and blankets to relieve the pressure on my knee. Nothing worked for long. I would get up through the night, trying to rest on one of the two couches, before eventually returning to bed. It wouldn't be until Labour day the following Monday before I felt I was getting actual rest. My eating was driven by random cravings -a necatarine here, maybe some cereal. Some soups were appetizing, others simply turned my stomach. For a small period I would lie in bed, craving a simple ham sandwich.
Tired, jittery, exhausted and in pain it was thus no surprise that my emotions were raw and brittle. I would find myself crying during those long nights of pain and sleeplessness, frustrated by the inability to do simple things -walk, sleep, eat. The pain in my knees exacerbated my emotional pain. My despair grew worse. And then when I thought I was bad, it managed to get even worse. My most despised chemo side effect manifested itself: constipation.
It might seem amusing, but this chemo is diabolical. First it siphons away your appetite, then causes intense pain while attempting to relieve your bowels. Because I was getting up to go the washroom every two hours, it was natural to try to find some relief. Only relief never came, just exhaustion and pain. The effects intensify even after my 5FU pump was removed Thursday. I don't remember details, just the gradual resignation that everything was hopeless. My despair grew, and my stock of hope evaporated. I seriously questioned my choice to take on this treatment. I just wanted to be done with chemo, done with cancer, done with life.
In my past chemo, the turning point was usually when the 5FU pump was removed Thursday afternoon sitting in the exam room, waiting for the nurse to remove the pump, I prayed I would soon feel better. My CCAC nurse evaluated my state and was concerned at how I was faring. For the only time I can recall, I was nearly sick again as the pump was disconnected. The profound feeling of helplessness was now pervading my every thought. That Thursday I thought I would be better in 24 hours, after all that's what I remembered. But that was five years ago, and my body simply wasn't up to the task.
Thursday night started the two worst days of my ordeal. Post chemo, post 5FU pump, I should be recovering. Instead I'm shaky, jittery. My sleep has left me exhausted, I cry at the smallest things My knee pain causes me so much discomfort that simply rolling over in bed is agony. I am depressed and despair that I'll ever feel comfortable. And through the next two days the discomfort from constipation grows. Fibre is key, water is key, patience is key. I can bring the first two into play, but I have no patience, no energy. It's a struggle to drag myself out of bed multiple times through the night to try to find relief. I'm just so tired, so damn emotional. I am bitterly angry at cancer for doing this to me. Not for the last time I seriously doubted my decision to engage in chemo.
For the first time in my life I'm saddened by the fact that I don't want to go on: With treatment. With suffering. With life. Why do I have to endure this? Where is the so-called quality of life? I am unable to think rationally anymore. I badly need rest and I am scared. I can't sleep. I just want this journey to be over. I want to give up.
Saturday, and a small glimmers of hope appear. My constipation battle is passing, so to speak, with help from stool softeners. My knee pain and sleep issues are still with me, and my appetite is returning I force myself get some exercise. I can't walk, but we have a small utilitarian exercise bike in our basement. I ride it for five minutes. Later I ride for 20 minutes. I have no stamina. My knee isn't adversely affected. Then an amazing resource comes to my assistance: one of my brothers has driven four hours to visit me this afternoon.
I rarely see my siblings, and given my current emotional state it was absolutely what I needed right then. We discussed in detail my emotional tribulations, and the core of my fears. When he left several hours later I was, if not calm, at least had a plan for the coming week. That plan would include meeting with my Oncologist to discuss my treatment and determine if it could be moderated to lessen the effects. Plus I figured out why my knees were bugging me: I had stopped taking my pain killers the day of chemo and never resumed them. Saturday night I would take one pill and was rewarded with, if not deep sleep, then a less pain-filled sleep.
I struggle to find my way back from those despair-filled depths of the previous week. By Tuesday -a week after chemo- I would feel somewhat rested but still not sleeping regularly. I ride my mountain bike, short distances, simply to be outside and get real exercise. I would relearn that I only have to enjoy my time now, when I feel good. I schedule an appointment with my Oncologist before my next treatment to discuss options and alternatives. I had drifted through my first treatment without conviction that there would be any benefit. I need a plan that it will make a difference, else I'm just wasting time.
By September 10th I've managed my day-to-day life better. It's only taken nine days, twice as long as it once did. Pain medication seems to help my sleeping. And I eat a lot of fibre. For the first time in months I worked on one of my small electronics projects. Am I getting better? Only time will tell. I have completed one chemo session, there are five more to go before an assessment will be done on how effective this treatment is. I hope I have the strength to see this through.
So my plan is simply this: continue with my treatment. Try to eat healthier. Find a way to manage my knee pain. Bike ride when I can. Prepare for the inevitable chemo side effects. Finally, learn to ask for help before I'm so overwhelmed that I feel there aren't any options left. There are always options, perhaps not ones we want to make, but ones that we can control.
That first day of September I had woken up early. I ate my usual breakfast of cereal, banana and blueberries. But something was not right Within an hour, before I had even left the house I was throwing up. This was the harbinger of my day to come.
I arrive at the Cancer Centre by 8:30am, shaky but feeling braver than I should have. The chemo room is as I remembered it. My nurse brings me to my chair -Number 7, must be a lucky chair I think. Preliminaries consist of going over the procedure, asking me questions from the ESAS survey. My scores for anxiety were concerning my nurse. But the process continued, and soon I found my shirt open, my chest being swabbed, and the moment of truth: with the nurse telling me to breathe out, the needle was pushed into my port. My thirteenth chemotherapy had formally started.
I was feeling OK, figuring the rest was just like before: get my computer out, sit back, wait for the pump, go home and rest. Every assumption I made from then on for the rest of the week would be wrong. It began with the anti-nausea meds.
I was given a pill to take that would help settle my stomach and thwart nausea. At the advice of my nurse, a preventative shot was also administered. Then another. As the hours grew I found I was cold, and asked for a blanket. My nurse put a cold cloth on my forehead. I was chilled and sniffling. That I was going to get sick was now inevitable. I told my nurse what was going to happen, and rather than scaring the patients by using the styrofoam cup at my lap, he helped me to the washroom. There I threw up for the second time that day. It took a while before I finally emerged, weak and shaky. Instead of going back to the chair however I was guided to a bed. For the first time ever, I was now in a room and given a bed to lie upon. Clearly my chemo was going badly.
But my ordeal was only beginning. Several nurses would check on me, discussing my nausea concerns. I still felt sick. Once more my shaky legs -I'm wearing a knee brace for a torn lateral meniscus - help me guide my attached IV pole to go back to the washroom, where I expunge the yellow bile that the chemo has put into my stomach. I return to my bed, but seeing the concern on the faces of the nurses tells me I'm in bad shape. Drastic measures -I'm put on a Gravol IV drip, and finally my nausea passes. Drowsiness causes my eyes to close. I rest, and I feel better. Ironically that would be the best rest I would have for the remainder of the week.
Because this was the first of a new round of chemotherapy, I was prescribed Avastin, to inhibit the growth of new blood vessels. Basically this cuts the supply routes for tumours. It's given in declining doses per session. As this is my first round, I had a 90 minute infusion of this drug. The last part of my treatment would be the attachment of the 5FU pump. I had brought my carrier with me -I had kept it all these years. Putting it on for the first time was somewhat bemusing, as the waist size was still set from my last session five years ago. I needed to let it out somewhat for today. With the pump on me, and three more bottles of medication to bring home, I was ready to leave. I had arrived at 8:30am, and by the time I left the Cancer Center is was nearly 3:15pm. It was a long day. And it would only get longer.
I would wear the 5FU pump for 46 hours. In theory it gets installed Tuesday, and Thursday afternoon it's removed. All I have to do is endure. For the first day, I was tired and listless, but couldn't really sleep. Only later that night would I find out how elusive sleep, and more importantly, rest, really was. I couldn't get comfortable, a side effect of the chemo was that every two hours I needed to use the bathroom. But due to my bad knees it was painful to hobble to the bathroom, using a cane. At time's I'd resort to crutches. Despite air conditioning it was hot. The entire region was under a heat alert for days, the humidity and heat cruelly confining me indoors for nearly the entire week. But the lack of sleep was more than fatiguing - I couldn't tell if I was sleeping or having waking dreams. The dreams were always agitated, disturbing and exceedingly exhausting. The only other time I've experienced this was when I was under major anaesthetic for my past surgeries. I was getting scared that I couldn't cope.
I was exhausted. And it got worse. I was restless, in pain from my knees. There was no position of comfort -on the bed, couch, chair. Desperate for any kind of comfort I tried sleeping on the floor with quilts and blankets to relieve the pressure on my knee. Nothing worked for long. I would get up through the night, trying to rest on one of the two couches, before eventually returning to bed. It wouldn't be until Labour day the following Monday before I felt I was getting actual rest. My eating was driven by random cravings -a necatarine here, maybe some cereal. Some soups were appetizing, others simply turned my stomach. For a small period I would lie in bed, craving a simple ham sandwich.
Tired, jittery, exhausted and in pain it was thus no surprise that my emotions were raw and brittle. I would find myself crying during those long nights of pain and sleeplessness, frustrated by the inability to do simple things -walk, sleep, eat. The pain in my knees exacerbated my emotional pain. My despair grew worse. And then when I thought I was bad, it managed to get even worse. My most despised chemo side effect manifested itself: constipation.
It might seem amusing, but this chemo is diabolical. First it siphons away your appetite, then causes intense pain while attempting to relieve your bowels. Because I was getting up to go the washroom every two hours, it was natural to try to find some relief. Only relief never came, just exhaustion and pain. The effects intensify even after my 5FU pump was removed Thursday. I don't remember details, just the gradual resignation that everything was hopeless. My despair grew, and my stock of hope evaporated. I seriously questioned my choice to take on this treatment. I just wanted to be done with chemo, done with cancer, done with life.
In my past chemo, the turning point was usually when the 5FU pump was removed Thursday afternoon sitting in the exam room, waiting for the nurse to remove the pump, I prayed I would soon feel better. My CCAC nurse evaluated my state and was concerned at how I was faring. For the only time I can recall, I was nearly sick again as the pump was disconnected. The profound feeling of helplessness was now pervading my every thought. That Thursday I thought I would be better in 24 hours, after all that's what I remembered. But that was five years ago, and my body simply wasn't up to the task.
Thursday night started the two worst days of my ordeal. Post chemo, post 5FU pump, I should be recovering. Instead I'm shaky, jittery. My sleep has left me exhausted, I cry at the smallest things My knee pain causes me so much discomfort that simply rolling over in bed is agony. I am depressed and despair that I'll ever feel comfortable. And through the next two days the discomfort from constipation grows. Fibre is key, water is key, patience is key. I can bring the first two into play, but I have no patience, no energy. It's a struggle to drag myself out of bed multiple times through the night to try to find relief. I'm just so tired, so damn emotional. I am bitterly angry at cancer for doing this to me. Not for the last time I seriously doubted my decision to engage in chemo.
For the first time in my life I'm saddened by the fact that I don't want to go on: With treatment. With suffering. With life. Why do I have to endure this? Where is the so-called quality of life? I am unable to think rationally anymore. I badly need rest and I am scared. I can't sleep. I just want this journey to be over. I want to give up.
Saturday, and a small glimmers of hope appear. My constipation battle is passing, so to speak, with help from stool softeners. My knee pain and sleep issues are still with me, and my appetite is returning I force myself get some exercise. I can't walk, but we have a small utilitarian exercise bike in our basement. I ride it for five minutes. Later I ride for 20 minutes. I have no stamina. My knee isn't adversely affected. Then an amazing resource comes to my assistance: one of my brothers has driven four hours to visit me this afternoon.
I rarely see my siblings, and given my current emotional state it was absolutely what I needed right then. We discussed in detail my emotional tribulations, and the core of my fears. When he left several hours later I was, if not calm, at least had a plan for the coming week. That plan would include meeting with my Oncologist to discuss my treatment and determine if it could be moderated to lessen the effects. Plus I figured out why my knees were bugging me: I had stopped taking my pain killers the day of chemo and never resumed them. Saturday night I would take one pill and was rewarded with, if not deep sleep, then a less pain-filled sleep.
I struggle to find my way back from those despair-filled depths of the previous week. By Tuesday -a week after chemo- I would feel somewhat rested but still not sleeping regularly. I ride my mountain bike, short distances, simply to be outside and get real exercise. I would relearn that I only have to enjoy my time now, when I feel good. I schedule an appointment with my Oncologist before my next treatment to discuss options and alternatives. I had drifted through my first treatment without conviction that there would be any benefit. I need a plan that it will make a difference, else I'm just wasting time.
By September 10th I've managed my day-to-day life better. It's only taken nine days, twice as long as it once did. Pain medication seems to help my sleeping. And I eat a lot of fibre. For the first time in months I worked on one of my small electronics projects. Am I getting better? Only time will tell. I have completed one chemo session, there are five more to go before an assessment will be done on how effective this treatment is. I hope I have the strength to see this through.
So my plan is simply this: continue with my treatment. Try to eat healthier. Find a way to manage my knee pain. Bike ride when I can. Prepare for the inevitable chemo side effects. Finally, learn to ask for help before I'm so overwhelmed that I feel there aren't any options left. There are always options, perhaps not ones we want to make, but ones that we can control.
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