My sanity is precarious on the days when the rollercoaster is headed downwards. It’s an odd mixture of extreme lucidity and visions. My awareness of particular things has become heightened or enhanced, depending on the day or situation. Is it the chemo? Is it myself coming to terms with my true nature? I haven’t decided yet.
For example, driving home from work early the other day, I was overcome with feeling nauseated, exhausted, and tender all over my body. I had these visions of all my ancestors lining the highways I traveled. There were thousands of them. They didn’t say things and I couldn’t pick any of them out in recognition, but I had the reassuring feeling that they weren’t disappointed in me. It was as if each of them persevered and lived their lives so that they could have more kin, like me.
It was an overwhelmingly loving situation, like a group of celestial blood-related cheerleaders.
And no, I did not crash my car.
Sometimes it feels like I have bonds around my wrists. No matter how elastic and forgiving they feel, they are still there. There are days when I almost forget that I have cancer, just in how I feel and in my attitude. A look in the mirror or at my day planner, and I’m transported back to reality. It’s easy to feel frustrated, much like a kid in the backseat of a car during a road trip.
Are we there yet? Aren’t we friggin’ there yet?
I’ve already envisioned myself breaking out of the bonds and in a way I’m a bit nervous. I’d liken it to coming out of prison, going on parole, and trying to assimilate back into society.
I already get odd looks now because of the way I appear to people. Once I’m fully acclimated, will I have to explain myself? As it is, my personal chronology can be delineated into BC: Before Cancer, and AC: After Cancer. Will cancer be the elephant in my corner?
In attempts to reconcile my apathy during this slump with a more positive outlook, I’ve resorted to wearing a rubber band around my wrist. I found out via Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips by Kris Carr that rubber bands are used in cognitive behavior modification for people grappling with addiction, depression, and other ailments and disorders. The idea is that once a negative thought or need for something negative arises, you snap the rubber band on your wrist so that it triggers a little jolt to your brain with its accompanying pain. It’s important to note that severe pain is not the goal here. The goal is to send an impulse to the brain to self-correct your thoughts and behaviors. It also makes you more cognitively aware of your urges and pulls you back to the present.
Thus far, I’ve noticed that it has helped me in the days when I’m feeling quite down and sorry for myself. I’ve also noticed how little I use it on some days, which makes me feel secure about my own attitudes during this journey. Some days I won’t wear it because I know I won't be self-defeating. However, during the slump days this past week, I found myself snapping at it more than a few times during an hour’s period.
At this point, you might have an image of me sitting in a corner with an elephant snapping away at a rubber band like a mad woman surrounded by celestial beings.
You might not be far from the truth.
However, if there is one thing I’ve learned about cancer is that you just fall in line with its cadence. You just let it make you feel what you need to feel.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Luke, please destroy my Death Star
It’s been over a week since I got my results for my midpoint PET scan.
As you may recall from a previous blog posting, my doctor thought the mass would be gone by now. The truth is that the mass is not gone, but it is half its original size. As my doctor mentioned: this is by no means bad news. It’s still progress and it appears that it has not spread, which is also good news.
The battle plan has changed a bit in light of this news. Rather than just continue with 4 more chemotherapies, I’ll be going forth with 2 more and then have another PET scan.
I have yet to see the photos of a PET scan but have been given the reports in written form, along with verbal descriptions. In order for the scan to work, the body must have a lower level of glucose than normal, hence the 6 hour fast prior to the procedure. Then, radioactive glucose is administered, in my case via an injection. Any tumors and masses seek the glucose and absorb it. After a 45-minute nap in a dark room, you are put in what looks like a tightly closed MRI machine. This is not a joy for the claustrophobic. I’m mildly claustrophobic and the first time in the tube, I had to convince myself that I was in a water tube ride so I didn’t hyperventilate. Staying in there 45 minutes to an hour, while strapped in so you don’t accidentally roll off the “bed,” presents more of an opportunity to nap. The PET scan machine takes incremental pictures of the body, which for me is from my thighs to the base of my skull. In order to interpret the results, the doctors are looking for not only the size of the cancer but also the density of color. The “brighter” it appears, the more activity it contains.
In my case, the cancer has shrunk and is less bright than before. I could almost liken it to a dying star in my chest, which is pretty much the outcome we want.
However, if the PET scan after the 2 chemos still shows activity, a stem cell transplant might be necessary. This would require a trip to MD Anderson in Houston, most likely, and more bone marrow taken in order to harvest my stem cells. Apparently, having a stem cell transplant allows the body to handle more aggressive chemotherapies by administering them back into my body post-chemo to rejuvenate my cells. I forgot that for other cancers, blood transfusions are used, but in the case of leukemia and lymphoma, since they are blood cancers, this is not an option.
In the last weeks, I feel like I have been floating through the days, some of it has been cancer paranoia; some of it is just plain weakness. I can feel my brain not working as well as it once did (chemo fog?). I made this analogy to some of my coworkers: you know how you can open multiple windows on a computer and have them all run at once? Well, my brain can only open and operate one window at a time these days.
I am also beginning to look more the part of a cancer patient: I have dark circles under my eyes and a more sickly pallor. I am trying hard to stay active and eat good things, but there is only so much I can do to prevent these symptoms.
This has presented some challenges between how my soul and body feels. It’s a weird situation because for the days when my body is beyond exhausted, my soul has to convince my body to just rest and fall asleep. For the days when I feel broken beyond depression, my body convinces my soul: really, I’m not doing that badly, so cheer up.
I know for some cancer patients, depending on their situation, they name their cancer. I really hadn’t devoted much creativity and time to creating a cancer alias. I think for some of the days, I just referred to my cancer as the “little monster”. In the face of pop culture creativity, I think I shall refer to my cancer as my Death Star.
It’s entirely appropriate because it’s the bad guy. It is suspended in space, as my cancer is suspended in a space. It’s round and my cancer is roundish. Most importantly, we all know the ending of A New Hope so really it has a more positive connotation.
Now, where is Luke Skywalker when you need him?
As you may recall from a previous blog posting, my doctor thought the mass would be gone by now. The truth is that the mass is not gone, but it is half its original size. As my doctor mentioned: this is by no means bad news. It’s still progress and it appears that it has not spread, which is also good news.
The battle plan has changed a bit in light of this news. Rather than just continue with 4 more chemotherapies, I’ll be going forth with 2 more and then have another PET scan.
I have yet to see the photos of a PET scan but have been given the reports in written form, along with verbal descriptions. In order for the scan to work, the body must have a lower level of glucose than normal, hence the 6 hour fast prior to the procedure. Then, radioactive glucose is administered, in my case via an injection. Any tumors and masses seek the glucose and absorb it. After a 45-minute nap in a dark room, you are put in what looks like a tightly closed MRI machine. This is not a joy for the claustrophobic. I’m mildly claustrophobic and the first time in the tube, I had to convince myself that I was in a water tube ride so I didn’t hyperventilate. Staying in there 45 minutes to an hour, while strapped in so you don’t accidentally roll off the “bed,” presents more of an opportunity to nap. The PET scan machine takes incremental pictures of the body, which for me is from my thighs to the base of my skull. In order to interpret the results, the doctors are looking for not only the size of the cancer but also the density of color. The “brighter” it appears, the more activity it contains.
In my case, the cancer has shrunk and is less bright than before. I could almost liken it to a dying star in my chest, which is pretty much the outcome we want.
However, if the PET scan after the 2 chemos still shows activity, a stem cell transplant might be necessary. This would require a trip to MD Anderson in Houston, most likely, and more bone marrow taken in order to harvest my stem cells. Apparently, having a stem cell transplant allows the body to handle more aggressive chemotherapies by administering them back into my body post-chemo to rejuvenate my cells. I forgot that for other cancers, blood transfusions are used, but in the case of leukemia and lymphoma, since they are blood cancers, this is not an option.
In the last weeks, I feel like I have been floating through the days, some of it has been cancer paranoia; some of it is just plain weakness. I can feel my brain not working as well as it once did (chemo fog?). I made this analogy to some of my coworkers: you know how you can open multiple windows on a computer and have them all run at once? Well, my brain can only open and operate one window at a time these days.
I am also beginning to look more the part of a cancer patient: I have dark circles under my eyes and a more sickly pallor. I am trying hard to stay active and eat good things, but there is only so much I can do to prevent these symptoms.
This has presented some challenges between how my soul and body feels. It’s a weird situation because for the days when my body is beyond exhausted, my soul has to convince my body to just rest and fall asleep. For the days when I feel broken beyond depression, my body convinces my soul: really, I’m not doing that badly, so cheer up.
I know for some cancer patients, depending on their situation, they name their cancer. I really hadn’t devoted much creativity and time to creating a cancer alias. I think for some of the days, I just referred to my cancer as the “little monster”. In the face of pop culture creativity, I think I shall refer to my cancer as my Death Star.
It’s entirely appropriate because it’s the bad guy. It is suspended in space, as my cancer is suspended in a space. It’s round and my cancer is roundish. Most importantly, we all know the ending of A New Hope so really it has a more positive connotation.
Now, where is Luke Skywalker when you need him?
Monday, June 6, 2011
Cancer zen
Chemo creates bouts of uncertainty, but there are times when there is clarity, even in their singular moments.
There are times when I feel like I should be telling people: I’m fine, now save yourself. Somehow I feel like a ghost that has drifted into the background. This is by no means because of how people treat me, it’s just how the cancer makes me feel reflective.
There are days when I don’t feel well and I am motivated to move forward for the pure sake of finding inner peace. I liken it to standing on one foot and trying to stay balanced. Sometimes you have to focus on a spot on a wall just to stay upright. I try to work through the discomfort just to find that spot within my mind.
There are days when it feels like I’m freefalling backwards and I don’t know if the feeling will stop. I don’t know if something will catch my fall or if I’ll just get the breath knocked out of me when I land.
Maybe those bouts of uncertainty?
Today at my oncology center, they were holding a Cancer Survivor’s Day. I received a goodie bag with a t-shirt, some candies, and a Livestrong rubber bracelet. They also provided food and refreshments.
I recall they hung posters and signs in the chemo room and lab advertising the day, but honestly, I had forgotten until the day had arrived. I was merely showing up for a blood test. It was like a real party, complete with people who knew each other and had connected in the past. These were people who were on a first name basis with the doctors and nurses.
I felt so out of place.
While everyone at the oncology center knows me and knows about me, my age differentiates me from many of the patients.
I breeze into the hospital for my appointments, still in my work clothes, walking faster than most of the healthy people in the hallways. If it weren’t for the bare head or head wrap, you probably couldn’t tell that I was a cancer patient at first glance.
Today at the little event, I noticed that I was not just years, but decades, younger than my peers. It’s a contradictory feeling, seeing people older than middle age and elderly battle cancer. There’s a bit of a stigma that cancer happens to the elderly more than other age groups. Perhaps this is true statistically. However, it doesn’t make it any easier to watch someone older than me go through cancer. I’m sure the same could be said for the reverse.
Like the woman sitting next to me at the event today noshing on food. She was probably the first stranger who wanted to know my cancer situation and understood about the treatments. When I was leaving, she held my hand for a moment and said: “you stay strong sweetie.” It felt so odd, someone who is probably a grandmother, saying that to me.
One of the nurse technicians pinned a yellow ribbon on my sweater and gave me a couple of yellow roses.
I left the hospital with the roses in my bag, feeling a bit like a rejected prom date, ever aware and uncertain about my situation.
The thing I didn’t understand about the term “cancer survivor” before having cancer is that it is used even while someone is in treatment. The idea is that the moment you are diagnosed, you are surviving cancer.
A giant portion of the uncertainty is the midpoint PET scan, which has come and gone. I should find out the results later this week. I’m nervous and anxious about the fate of the monster in my lung.
Next week is also yet another chemo. Part of me thinks: didn’t I just do chemo? Maybe the last rounds of treatment will seem faster. In a blink, summer will be over.
Meanwhile, there is more time to work on my cancer zen.
There are times when I feel like I should be telling people: I’m fine, now save yourself. Somehow I feel like a ghost that has drifted into the background. This is by no means because of how people treat me, it’s just how the cancer makes me feel reflective.
There are days when I don’t feel well and I am motivated to move forward for the pure sake of finding inner peace. I liken it to standing on one foot and trying to stay balanced. Sometimes you have to focus on a spot on a wall just to stay upright. I try to work through the discomfort just to find that spot within my mind.
There are days when it feels like I’m freefalling backwards and I don’t know if the feeling will stop. I don’t know if something will catch my fall or if I’ll just get the breath knocked out of me when I land.
Maybe those bouts of uncertainty?
Today at my oncology center, they were holding a Cancer Survivor’s Day. I received a goodie bag with a t-shirt, some candies, and a Livestrong rubber bracelet. They also provided food and refreshments.
I recall they hung posters and signs in the chemo room and lab advertising the day, but honestly, I had forgotten until the day had arrived. I was merely showing up for a blood test. It was like a real party, complete with people who knew each other and had connected in the past. These were people who were on a first name basis with the doctors and nurses.
I felt so out of place.
While everyone at the oncology center knows me and knows about me, my age differentiates me from many of the patients.
I breeze into the hospital for my appointments, still in my work clothes, walking faster than most of the healthy people in the hallways. If it weren’t for the bare head or head wrap, you probably couldn’t tell that I was a cancer patient at first glance.
Today at the little event, I noticed that I was not just years, but decades, younger than my peers. It’s a contradictory feeling, seeing people older than middle age and elderly battle cancer. There’s a bit of a stigma that cancer happens to the elderly more than other age groups. Perhaps this is true statistically. However, it doesn’t make it any easier to watch someone older than me go through cancer. I’m sure the same could be said for the reverse.
Like the woman sitting next to me at the event today noshing on food. She was probably the first stranger who wanted to know my cancer situation and understood about the treatments. When I was leaving, she held my hand for a moment and said: “you stay strong sweetie.” It felt so odd, someone who is probably a grandmother, saying that to me.
One of the nurse technicians pinned a yellow ribbon on my sweater and gave me a couple of yellow roses.
I left the hospital with the roses in my bag, feeling a bit like a rejected prom date, ever aware and uncertain about my situation.
The thing I didn’t understand about the term “cancer survivor” before having cancer is that it is used even while someone is in treatment. The idea is that the moment you are diagnosed, you are surviving cancer.
A giant portion of the uncertainty is the midpoint PET scan, which has come and gone. I should find out the results later this week. I’m nervous and anxious about the fate of the monster in my lung.
Next week is also yet another chemo. Part of me thinks: didn’t I just do chemo? Maybe the last rounds of treatment will seem faster. In a blink, summer will be over.
Meanwhile, there is more time to work on my cancer zen.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Happenstance
I very much believe that things happen for a reason.
However, if I were to say that there is truth and understanding in this bout of cancer shenanigans, I’d be kidding myself.
I don’t know why it happened.
What am I truly expecting out of my life? I don’t think I have too many preconceived notions about where it will take me. I’ve always been very academically mindful, but I never had this checklist for things I should accomplish. I mean, there have been the “it would nice” and the “I’d like to” moments. However, I knew early on I didn’t need that hanging over my head.
Maybe this has been my saving grace. Honestly, thus far, my life has been exceptional. People I care about, who care back, surround me. I’ve traveled to other countries. I completed a college degree in something that drove my artistic vision and I’m working on another. I was born into the most wonderful family possible.
I doubt I’d recommend other people get cancer, as if it were this free-floating amorphous disease you could just inhale accidentally. Then again, wait until researchers discover the causes behind lymphoma and I could be eating this statement.
I have the desire and drive to move beyond this, despite the marks it has left on me both literally and intellectually. I suppose I’ve finally discovered that as much I look forward, I need to work on my situation now.
Thus begins a new beginning to my spiritual journey. Sitting there in the chemo room, I allowed my body to just rest and sleep. Before, I’d squirmed and just hated being there and feeling awful. I have found a new resolve. Part of it is because I don’t think I have much of a choice. My doctor thinks the mass should be gone by now. I was surprised to hear this news. My initial thought was: why the hell are we doing more treatments?
Apparently, the other 4 treatments are to ensure the cancer doesn’t come back. The bad cells could potentially be floating around my body still. Part of me is encouraged, but also discouraged by this news.
I found a punching bag in my sister’s old closet and I’ve pulled it out to not only work out my upper arm strength, but to get my aggression out. I now take a walk twice a day on my days off and in the evenings on workdays.
I’m determined to keep myself strong as I go forth into the treatments that will make me weak.
I could philosophize all day, but perhaps this is why all this has happened: to get my mind, body, and spirit to become a singular entity.
Or at least to let me hit a punching bag with zeal.
However, if I were to say that there is truth and understanding in this bout of cancer shenanigans, I’d be kidding myself.
I don’t know why it happened.
What am I truly expecting out of my life? I don’t think I have too many preconceived notions about where it will take me. I’ve always been very academically mindful, but I never had this checklist for things I should accomplish. I mean, there have been the “it would nice” and the “I’d like to” moments. However, I knew early on I didn’t need that hanging over my head.
Maybe this has been my saving grace. Honestly, thus far, my life has been exceptional. People I care about, who care back, surround me. I’ve traveled to other countries. I completed a college degree in something that drove my artistic vision and I’m working on another. I was born into the most wonderful family possible.
I doubt I’d recommend other people get cancer, as if it were this free-floating amorphous disease you could just inhale accidentally. Then again, wait until researchers discover the causes behind lymphoma and I could be eating this statement.
I have the desire and drive to move beyond this, despite the marks it has left on me both literally and intellectually. I suppose I’ve finally discovered that as much I look forward, I need to work on my situation now.
Thus begins a new beginning to my spiritual journey. Sitting there in the chemo room, I allowed my body to just rest and sleep. Before, I’d squirmed and just hated being there and feeling awful. I have found a new resolve. Part of it is because I don’t think I have much of a choice. My doctor thinks the mass should be gone by now. I was surprised to hear this news. My initial thought was: why the hell are we doing more treatments?
Apparently, the other 4 treatments are to ensure the cancer doesn’t come back. The bad cells could potentially be floating around my body still. Part of me is encouraged, but also discouraged by this news.
I found a punching bag in my sister’s old closet and I’ve pulled it out to not only work out my upper arm strength, but to get my aggression out. I now take a walk twice a day on my days off and in the evenings on workdays.
I’m determined to keep myself strong as I go forth into the treatments that will make me weak.
I could philosophize all day, but perhaps this is why all this has happened: to get my mind, body, and spirit to become a singular entity.
Or at least to let me hit a punching bag with zeal.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Phantom effect
Anxiety is such a fickle animal and it creeps up on you in the weirdest of ways. I remember in college when I had my first panic attack. I thought I was going to die. My body started tingling and I became completely numb while my heart was racing and I began to see stars. It was closing in fast and I had no idea what was happening.
I’m not feeling that kind of stress-induced anxiety these days, but I have been counting down the days until my next chemo, the one that should be halfway through my treatment cycles. The one where I’ll have a base for subsequent treatments by having another PET scan.
I have pretty much acknowledged that I have cancer and I’m getting treatments. I’m glad to be over the shock of it. Sometimes I forget that I’m in the throes of cancer survivorship, except when I see my port scar as I’m dressing, or having to go to yet another appointment to check my blood or have a follow-up with the doctor.
I haven’t worn a wig yet and prefer to wrap my bare head in scarves, which sometimes garners me odd looks. I must look like either a hippie or someone who has spent many years in tropical climates. With the white polka dot on black scarf I wear often, I look like I could fit in at a Hutterite colony. Ethnic confusion aside, I rather like the look and just appreciate the warmth and protection of the scarves from the air conditioning and sun.
I have known people with amputations that have mentioned the phantom effect of their removed limbs. They say it feels like the limb has never left, which could be the result of the remaining nerves giving that sensation. I have discovered the same with my hair. With the wind moving through, or rather over, my hair, I remember when my hair was long and it would be pushed streaming across my face. The last few days with the storms and the winds, I find myself unconsciously pushing my non-existent hair away from my face. In an odd way, it’s like it never left.
I have been appreciating my return to work more each day, even though I can’t be around many people. It’s a welcome feeling to be part of something bigger than the nuances of my treatments. The fact that I miss working with people and books makes me feel secure about my decision to attend graduate school in library science. I miss working in a library setting and relish when I can return.
Thus far I have a somewhat normal routine. I wake up around 4:30 am to a cat patiently waiting for me to feed him. By patient, I mean, he steps on my chest and bites my nose to make sure I’m fully awake to pay attention to him. I make green juice and go about my morning until I leave for work at 5:30 am. When there are no clouds, I get to see the beginnings of the sunrise.
I surprise people when I tell them I’m a morning person. Really, if I had the option, I’d rather work earlier in the day than later. I’d become habitually confused by the time of day as a retail manager because my shifts would change daily or weekly. One day in the week I could be at work at 6:00 am, another day, I wouldn’t be home until after midnight. My poor body, with its innate biological rituals, would remain confused. I would do the cruel thing of depriving myself of sleep, loading my body with caffeine, and then expect myself to complete schoolwork late at night despite experiencing the two previous things. Naturally, fatigue would set in and I would still push through it. I’m grateful I am now forced to be more in tune with my body. Having a consistent work schedule has helped me get my body into a more natural rhythm.
I’m amazed at all the things within my body and in my environment that are at work all the time. I’ll cut myself accidentally and slowly the cut will heal. It’s reassuring to see my body fixing itself. I take this to heart as I approach my 4th chemo.
Despite all the anxiety about the treatments, I have to remember that my body will heal itself even after the damage has been done.
The cancer phantoms will soon disappear.
I’m not feeling that kind of stress-induced anxiety these days, but I have been counting down the days until my next chemo, the one that should be halfway through my treatment cycles. The one where I’ll have a base for subsequent treatments by having another PET scan.
I have pretty much acknowledged that I have cancer and I’m getting treatments. I’m glad to be over the shock of it. Sometimes I forget that I’m in the throes of cancer survivorship, except when I see my port scar as I’m dressing, or having to go to yet another appointment to check my blood or have a follow-up with the doctor.
I haven’t worn a wig yet and prefer to wrap my bare head in scarves, which sometimes garners me odd looks. I must look like either a hippie or someone who has spent many years in tropical climates. With the white polka dot on black scarf I wear often, I look like I could fit in at a Hutterite colony. Ethnic confusion aside, I rather like the look and just appreciate the warmth and protection of the scarves from the air conditioning and sun.
I have known people with amputations that have mentioned the phantom effect of their removed limbs. They say it feels like the limb has never left, which could be the result of the remaining nerves giving that sensation. I have discovered the same with my hair. With the wind moving through, or rather over, my hair, I remember when my hair was long and it would be pushed streaming across my face. The last few days with the storms and the winds, I find myself unconsciously pushing my non-existent hair away from my face. In an odd way, it’s like it never left.
I have been appreciating my return to work more each day, even though I can’t be around many people. It’s a welcome feeling to be part of something bigger than the nuances of my treatments. The fact that I miss working with people and books makes me feel secure about my decision to attend graduate school in library science. I miss working in a library setting and relish when I can return.
Thus far I have a somewhat normal routine. I wake up around 4:30 am to a cat patiently waiting for me to feed him. By patient, I mean, he steps on my chest and bites my nose to make sure I’m fully awake to pay attention to him. I make green juice and go about my morning until I leave for work at 5:30 am. When there are no clouds, I get to see the beginnings of the sunrise.
I surprise people when I tell them I’m a morning person. Really, if I had the option, I’d rather work earlier in the day than later. I’d become habitually confused by the time of day as a retail manager because my shifts would change daily or weekly. One day in the week I could be at work at 6:00 am, another day, I wouldn’t be home until after midnight. My poor body, with its innate biological rituals, would remain confused. I would do the cruel thing of depriving myself of sleep, loading my body with caffeine, and then expect myself to complete schoolwork late at night despite experiencing the two previous things. Naturally, fatigue would set in and I would still push through it. I’m grateful I am now forced to be more in tune with my body. Having a consistent work schedule has helped me get my body into a more natural rhythm.
I’m amazed at all the things within my body and in my environment that are at work all the time. I’ll cut myself accidentally and slowly the cut will heal. It’s reassuring to see my body fixing itself. I take this to heart as I approach my 4th chemo.
Despite all the anxiety about the treatments, I have to remember that my body will heal itself even after the damage has been done.
The cancer phantoms will soon disappear.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The fishbowl
I was suspicious that I had been feeling so great after my third chemo and held my breath for the week following the treatment. Like clockwork, I began to feel awful. I’ve dubbed this the 6th day, 6-day slump. It seems to be around the 6th day post treatment, the chemo rollercoaster has finished its climb and is ready for the drop.
I would like to think this drop could be considered thrilling, but really it could be placed in the “I’d rather face-plant into concrete” category. As an added bonus, it lasts more than a few days.
There is a bright side, thankfully, and it is that the week following this hellish slump gets better. I get to feel less nauseated, with fewer headaches, and my muscles will not have a revolution.
While I wait for this slump to pass and for the brighter days to come into view, I have much time to ponder simple things, such as:
How come I can fall asleep in a warm bath, but am wide-awake within warm blankets?
Or, what will make me less nauseous: corn flakes with milk or toast with butter?
Still, the vague irony is that the nicest days seem to be the ones where I am committed inside.
This North Texas spring has been the mildest I can remember and beckons us to come outdoors. My outdoor excitement these past few days has been getting the mail and absorbing as much Vitamin D as I can, before I regret walking outside in my pajamas in full view of the neighbors.
As of late, my body in full Revolutionary mode, complete with its own Boston Tea Party, and dumping contents into the sea (let me not get more explicit than this).
I am either a glutton for punishment, or there is truly nothing on television, because I watch Food Network even during these times. Trip to the toilet and then: Oh! Cupcake Wars is on! How does someone make 1,000 cupcakes in 2 hours?
I am saddened that my existence has been homogenized by generic questions such as the above. I reflect upon a time when I was working two jobs and going to school. I recall reading school material with zeal. Now, the same zeal has been applied to maintaining hydrated and a preoccupation with blood cell counts and body temperature.
For some reason, I still like to cook when I feel awful, even if I don’t eat the food. For example, today, the war continues and I still found satisfaction in creaming together butter and sugar.
Perhaps all these things are a way to bide my time before the upcoming 4th chemo treatment and the tests that will follow to see my progress.
Part of me is anxious to see how much the mass has reduced at the halfway point and the outlook for the duration of my summer.
Thus, distractions and revolutions ensue.
Orange pound cake, anyone?
I would like to think this drop could be considered thrilling, but really it could be placed in the “I’d rather face-plant into concrete” category. As an added bonus, it lasts more than a few days.
There is a bright side, thankfully, and it is that the week following this hellish slump gets better. I get to feel less nauseated, with fewer headaches, and my muscles will not have a revolution.
While I wait for this slump to pass and for the brighter days to come into view, I have much time to ponder simple things, such as:
How come I can fall asleep in a warm bath, but am wide-awake within warm blankets?
Or, what will make me less nauseous: corn flakes with milk or toast with butter?
Still, the vague irony is that the nicest days seem to be the ones where I am committed inside.
This North Texas spring has been the mildest I can remember and beckons us to come outdoors. My outdoor excitement these past few days has been getting the mail and absorbing as much Vitamin D as I can, before I regret walking outside in my pajamas in full view of the neighbors.
As of late, my body in full Revolutionary mode, complete with its own Boston Tea Party, and dumping contents into the sea (let me not get more explicit than this).
I am either a glutton for punishment, or there is truly nothing on television, because I watch Food Network even during these times. Trip to the toilet and then: Oh! Cupcake Wars is on! How does someone make 1,000 cupcakes in 2 hours?
I am saddened that my existence has been homogenized by generic questions such as the above. I reflect upon a time when I was working two jobs and going to school. I recall reading school material with zeal. Now, the same zeal has been applied to maintaining hydrated and a preoccupation with blood cell counts and body temperature.
For some reason, I still like to cook when I feel awful, even if I don’t eat the food. For example, today, the war continues and I still found satisfaction in creaming together butter and sugar.
Perhaps all these things are a way to bide my time before the upcoming 4th chemo treatment and the tests that will follow to see my progress.
Part of me is anxious to see how much the mass has reduced at the halfway point and the outlook for the duration of my summer.
Thus, distractions and revolutions ensue.
Orange pound cake, anyone?
Monday, May 9, 2011
Call it a road, call it a journey...
I’m in a bit of denial about my treatments. I am not so much reeling from my third chemo treatment as running away from the idealism of it. I’m already tired of thinking of myself as unhealthy. This obviously has its challenges because I have to consider my surroundings in all my decisions in order to ensure my current and future health. With that said, however, I’m struck by how much not giving into the idea of cancer has helped me lately.
This might not be a method that works for everyone. It occurs to me that we each deal with a strife, whether biological or not, in our daily lives. Perhaps this is my strife. This is not a disease that will inhibit me, it is just part of me. I won’t grow accustomed to it, but I will respect it for what it is.
I’m nauseated at the thought of what is put into my body to dissolve this mass hiding out in my left lung. Talking about it makes a hole in my stomach and leaves me speechless. I dry heave almost unconsciously because the experience of chemo is just awful. There is nothing positive about it, but hope. When I sit in that room with a maximum of 5 other people, we are all waiting for our individual treatments to commence and finish. We all look at each other silently, acknowledging this truly strange quest we have each been given.
When the treatment is over, we sling our proverbial packs over our shoulders, and continue on with our day.
In theory, denial is the beginning to the cycle of grief. I have already experienced different sides of it in what has felt like the longest near 2 months, including anger and depression.
Maybe there is no grief in this scenario.
I question myself, as if perhaps I’m not feeling what I should be feeling. Had I already reached acceptance and now I’m going backwards?
Is there a right way to feel about cancer or any life-threatening illness, disease, or event?
It feels like it has been handed to me unceremoniously. I’m not receiving a scroll or an order with a ribbon around it; I’m receiving a crumpled remnant of scrap paper. What could I possibly glean from this?
In not getting caught up with cancer, I’ve settled into the very cozy feeling of love. Not necessarily romantic love, though, that is there too. Just the cushion of caring people: it’s nourishing and affirming. It’s very encouraging how the idea of love is both simplistic and complex. It’s in actions and in words. It’s in knowing glances and in smiles. Allowing myself to be enveloped in this feeling and sharing it is incredibly rewarding.
I’ve only told a few people, but mortality has been the absolute last thought on my mind since my diagnosis. Even I second guess myself, thinking that should be the first and initial waking thought in my head, but it’s not and nor will it be.
I just keep thinking about the next day and how it will get better, because it has no choice.
I refuse to let it be anything else but a better day.
This might not be a method that works for everyone. It occurs to me that we each deal with a strife, whether biological or not, in our daily lives. Perhaps this is my strife. This is not a disease that will inhibit me, it is just part of me. I won’t grow accustomed to it, but I will respect it for what it is.
I’m nauseated at the thought of what is put into my body to dissolve this mass hiding out in my left lung. Talking about it makes a hole in my stomach and leaves me speechless. I dry heave almost unconsciously because the experience of chemo is just awful. There is nothing positive about it, but hope. When I sit in that room with a maximum of 5 other people, we are all waiting for our individual treatments to commence and finish. We all look at each other silently, acknowledging this truly strange quest we have each been given.
When the treatment is over, we sling our proverbial packs over our shoulders, and continue on with our day.
In theory, denial is the beginning to the cycle of grief. I have already experienced different sides of it in what has felt like the longest near 2 months, including anger and depression.
Maybe there is no grief in this scenario.
I question myself, as if perhaps I’m not feeling what I should be feeling. Had I already reached acceptance and now I’m going backwards?
Is there a right way to feel about cancer or any life-threatening illness, disease, or event?
It feels like it has been handed to me unceremoniously. I’m not receiving a scroll or an order with a ribbon around it; I’m receiving a crumpled remnant of scrap paper. What could I possibly glean from this?
In not getting caught up with cancer, I’ve settled into the very cozy feeling of love. Not necessarily romantic love, though, that is there too. Just the cushion of caring people: it’s nourishing and affirming. It’s very encouraging how the idea of love is both simplistic and complex. It’s in actions and in words. It’s in knowing glances and in smiles. Allowing myself to be enveloped in this feeling and sharing it is incredibly rewarding.
I’ve only told a few people, but mortality has been the absolute last thought on my mind since my diagnosis. Even I second guess myself, thinking that should be the first and initial waking thought in my head, but it’s not and nor will it be.
I just keep thinking about the next day and how it will get better, because it has no choice.
I refuse to let it be anything else but a better day.
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