The slump is over and the neuropathy is slowing disappearing. I’m elated to find my body responding better to activity. I’m enjoying the feeling of strength, both physically and mentally.
Part of me wants to run full speed ahead and not look back, but the other part reminds me that it is a process and a transition, that patience is required.
It’s a shock to most people when I explain that while I’m finished with treatments, I’m not technically in the cancer-clear. It’s not that I want to be fatalistic about it at all, it is just reality. I will still have the port in my body for at least another year. I still have to go to the doctor routinely for blood work and PET scans. What is positive, however, is that these appointments are more staggered in the proceeding months. According to my oncologist, after about 2 years of negative tests, I can typically say I’m officially cancer-free. Then again, nothing is overly typical about cancer.
I realize going forth that it’s all a series of markers and anniversaries. It’s a bit of a grim thought process, but it’s a set of reminders of what has transpired and what my life will look like beyond today.
This past week I have been trying to get acquainted with a new natural looking wig. I wore it while grocery shopping and at work. I thought perhaps it would help me in the post-treatment process. I will be utterly honest: it looks good but I hate wearing it. It hangs limply on a hook on the towel rack like road kill. Every morning when I groggily stumble to the sink to wash my face, I see it and always do a double take.
I don’t look bad with my shaved head at all, but it’s still a reminder of a body wrought with havoc. I’m afraid of scaring children when I return to work at the library. Now that it’s finally growing in, people assume I did it on purpose. If I get a wary look, I usually just smile brightly. Kill them with kindness, right?
Some of the chemo and steroid-induced “puffiness” is leaving my body. However, I am sad to inform that my attempt to fit into my lovely yellow dirndl for Oktoberfest was met with me making a face in the mirror because of its corset-like tightness. It’s supposed to be roomier to fit in food and drink! Alas, it will not be making an appearance. Scheisse. This girl likes to breathe now and again.
The days have been coasting by quickly and not a moment passes when I am grateful that it is only going to get better from this point forth.
No day has gotten me down because I keep reflecting on these thoughts: I pummeled cancer into submission. I am an army of me sans mutated cells. And I have the scars to prove it.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
The Final Countdown
Last chemo completed? Check.
Taking post-chemo steroids? Check and aggravating me.
Neupogen shots to aid in white blood cell production? Begins tomorrow.
Post-slump neuropathy? Will occur a few days after the slump.
The post-chemo charade is ridiculous and annoying all at once. However, I’ve become so accustomed to it, I could probably predict the following: the exact count of my white blood cells depending on the time of day, when my steroid-induced acid reflux will occur, and when I will begin to hurt all over in the slump, to the hour, later in the week.
I have this “grin and bear it” attitude firmly in place this time around, mostly because the uncertainty of all this is gone, and I’m ready to just be done with it.
No lie that cancer sucks.
However, I’ve learned some random things about post-chemo treatment that I will share:
1. Coffee makes my steroid-addled self sleepy. Go figure.
2. The cute little final bag of chemo drugs is bright red and makes my face and chest turn the same color for a few days. It looks as though I have a heat rash. This is after I’ve peed orange soda color for 24 hours. Most attractive.
3. Prednisone, the precious steroid I have to take, causes my stomach to have acid reflux. I take acid reflux medication, which makes my stomach upset. It also makes me alternately tired and wired. Vicious cycle.
4. There are approximately 500-750 lymph nodes in your body, depending on the individual. During the post-chemo slump, they all decide to swell and have a riot. This also makes me want to sleep a full day to make up for the sleep I didn’t get while on the steroid. Most damning.
5. When the slump is over and the neuropathy has kicked in, I wear tight hospital socks to bed so I can’t feel the tingling in my toes. I have officially become a grandma.
6. When the neuropathy is finally over and I’m aware that I can feel my phalanges again, I kiss the floor because I’m so grateful it is all over.
There was a point when I would add “until next time,” but there is so much relief that this is not something I get to say this time around.
The weary smile has been replaced with the blissful smile.
Taking post-chemo steroids? Check and aggravating me.
Neupogen shots to aid in white blood cell production? Begins tomorrow.
Post-slump neuropathy? Will occur a few days after the slump.
The post-chemo charade is ridiculous and annoying all at once. However, I’ve become so accustomed to it, I could probably predict the following: the exact count of my white blood cells depending on the time of day, when my steroid-induced acid reflux will occur, and when I will begin to hurt all over in the slump, to the hour, later in the week.
I have this “grin and bear it” attitude firmly in place this time around, mostly because the uncertainty of all this is gone, and I’m ready to just be done with it.
No lie that cancer sucks.
However, I’ve learned some random things about post-chemo treatment that I will share:
1. Coffee makes my steroid-addled self sleepy. Go figure.
2. The cute little final bag of chemo drugs is bright red and makes my face and chest turn the same color for a few days. It looks as though I have a heat rash. This is after I’ve peed orange soda color for 24 hours. Most attractive.
3. Prednisone, the precious steroid I have to take, causes my stomach to have acid reflux. I take acid reflux medication, which makes my stomach upset. It also makes me alternately tired and wired. Vicious cycle.
4. There are approximately 500-750 lymph nodes in your body, depending on the individual. During the post-chemo slump, they all decide to swell and have a riot. This also makes me want to sleep a full day to make up for the sleep I didn’t get while on the steroid. Most damning.
5. When the slump is over and the neuropathy has kicked in, I wear tight hospital socks to bed so I can’t feel the tingling in my toes. I have officially become a grandma.
6. When the neuropathy is finally over and I’m aware that I can feel my phalanges again, I kiss the floor because I’m so grateful it is all over.
There was a point when I would add “until next time,” but there is so much relief that this is not something I get to say this time around.
The weary smile has been replaced with the blissful smile.
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