Quiet--now that's something that has been lacking in my life lately. The whir of radiation machines, the drone of doctors, and speech therapists and dieticians, nurses, stats and orders. So this week I gave myself quiet time from the blog, from the thinking, from the analyzing of what I'm going through--how am I? Well, it's both good and bad...but when isn't cancer a mixed bag?
I found, in my last post, that I managed to make my niece cry. This is not of course what I'm aiming to do, though I'm not certain I can avoid that always. Having just lost her mother, and now having another family member going through something strikingly similar is cruel at best for both of us.
But I don't want to soft pedal anything, so Kathy, I know you won't like some of what you read here, but I'm working hard to be ok...so keep it calm as much as you can.
Today in the shower, while washing my hair, I found my palm full of hair. Apparently, the back of my head is shedding--I looked at my bathrobe and found a collar of grey hair (I'm a blonde/grey guy, after all this significantly more grey). I had an idea that this was happening--the other day, I found a few hairs in the bathtub, and cursing Scott for not cleaning up after himself made no sense--I was pretty certain those hairs weren't there when I started.
So today, I cried. I know, this is not the very worst thing that could happen. There are far worse things than hair that usually grows back...but after 17 radiation sessions and 4 chemos, the fact that it hadn't started gave me hope that it wouldn't--that, after all, there would be one indignity I would be spared. I have to spend my days discussing how many times I eat, crap, how long I sleep, how much mucous is flowing out of me, I thought this was one thing that I wouldn't experience.
It appears that I'm destined to enjoy the full cancer buzzkill.
Now, perhaps that's a good thing. Perhaps I'm not spared any indignity because I'll never pass this way again and the cosmos is slamming the full experience down--the Louvre in a day, if you will (I tried that once--don't). Or maybe it's just the power of what I'm dealing with revealing, again, how big it is and how much bigger I need to be. I'm hoping the former over the latter.
On the positive side, although I look like I have a dog's sunburn on the lower part of my face from radiation, during the daily treatments, I've learned to relax enough that I've started to fall asleep. Midway through, the table adjusts slightly, with two small knocks, three quarters of the way through, the overhead arm of the machine moves far east to far west, as if a full day has passed. I end with arm moving midway back east, directly overhead, making it's peculiar spitting sound in my face, a bit loud at first, and sputtering out, followed by the techs re-entering and lifting the mask off my face.
At chemo, Fred and Dana keep a chatter up at the desk while I play with my Ipad, or read; Fred is more taciturn, Dana is very high touch. I sit there for a few hours, and they warn me when the diruetic is dripped in. You can wait about 5 minutes and then it's time to go--this is not like drinking a cup of coffee. It's purpose is to force my kidneys to flush, and test their efficacy, as Cisplatin is notable for damaging gimpy kidneys. Apparently, mine are fairly powerful. Usually, I go four times after this stuff drips through, and I don't stray far from a john if I can help it the rest of the day.
There is that extra week of radiation, and now the possibility of adding Erbitux at the end of my traditional chemo for an extra boost of awesome--or gross, if you will. Erbitux has a nearly 100% skin rash rate on the people who endure it--but those who endure it tend to live. Dr. Kramer promises he can manage the side effects by dose management. So far, he hasn't lied, so I believe him. I'll deal.
As I'm sitting here now, I've spent the last couple of days expelling huge amounts of mucous, mostly through the tedious and now familiar routine of blowing it all out of my mouth into tissue--boxes, and boxes worth! I do this all day, and wake up several times a night to do it too...the mucous is thick, not at all like having a runny nose, though I have that too from taking thinners that are keeping me from totally choking on this stuff. I wonder if I could dry this stuff out and build a house with it? It sure feels as if it's a precursor to cement.
As with anyday in Cancer town, the news isn't all good or all bad--one step forward, one step sideways, headwinds blowing all the while. Scott was right when he said the other day that this was my full time job--indeed it is. There's no benefits, no vacation, and the boss is an asshole. Seems like the typical American shop, after all.
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