If you are going through chemo or cancer treatment, it is likely that you have become well acquainted with blood draws and IV needles. Just for the record, it IS possible to draw viable blood samples from adult veins using the tiny #23 butterfly needles. I only found this out recently when I confessed to my nurse that I have begun bursting into spontaneous tears every time a needle enters my skin. This reaction has increased over the past few weeks as my scarring veins put up more and more resistance to the needles. "Oh!" She said. "We can do something about that!" Silly me, I had assumed that all medical personnel were doing the least damage physically possible to my body under the circumstances. I am learning that it is almost always best to (politely) complain, because sometimes there is actually something more that can be done to alleviate your pain. Even great nurses and doctors just don't think of everything.
Another thing that I have found helpful is the Emblen (sp?) anesthetic cream. My oncologist didn't think to prescribe it, but I got a tip from one of the phlebotomists/ AKA: blood sucking needle wielders. I have been using it before I have to have my port accessed, and now have also started applying it to a likely spot on my veins about an hour before scheduled blood draws. Now I can look the other way and don't even feel the needle sliding in - sigh of relief!
If anyone gives you any guff about blood cells lysing because of the small needle, ask them to use a slow, controlled hand syringe instead of the high-pressure vaccuum tube normally used with large IV needles. According to a friend who has lab experience, it is only a rushed job that will ruin a blood sample taken with butterflies. If anyone resists my request at this point, I intend to firmly demand justification from a supervisor! ;)
Monday, November 20, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Denise Levertov
I am reading with great enjoyment a book by Denise Levertov called, "This Great Unknowing: Last Poems", a compilation of her last forty poems. Here is one of my favorites:
Patience
"What patience a landscape has, like an old horse,
head down in its field.
Grey days,
air and fine rain cling, become one, hovering till at last,
languidly, rain relinquishes that embrace, consents
to fall. What patience a hill, a plain,
a band of woodland holding still, have, and the slow falling
of grey rain... Is it blind faith? Is it
merely a way to deeply rest? Is the horse
only resigned,or has it
some desireable knowledge, an enclosed meadow
quite other than its sodden field,
which patience is the key to? Has it already,
within itself, entered that sunwarmed shelter?"
There is a powerful sense of quietness about her poems. Levertov is a fine poet.
I can't resist adding a few other lovely portions:
Once Only
"All which, because it was
flame and song and granted us
joy, we thought we'd do, be, revisit,
turns out to have been what it was
that once, only; every initiation
did not begin
a series, a build-up: the marvelous
did happen in our lives, our stories
are not drab with its absence: but don't
expect now to return for more. Whatever more
there will be will be
unique as those were unique. Try
to acknowledge the next
song in its body-halo of flames as utterly
present, as now or never."
from Immersion:
"There is anger abroad in the world, a numb thunder,
because of God's silence: But how naive,
to keep wanting words we could speak ourselves...
God's abstention is only from human dialects. The holy voice
utters its woe and glory in myriad musics, in signs and portents.
Our own words are for us to speak, a way to ask and to answer."
from Noblesse Oblige
"(Meanwhile,
the April sun, cold though it is,
has opened the small daisies,
so many and so humble they get underfoot-
and don't care. Each one
a form of laughter.)
from Translucence
"This great unknowing
is part of their holiness. They are always trying
to share out joy as if it were cake or water,
something ordinary, not rare at all."
Patience
"What patience a landscape has, like an old horse,
head down in its field.
Grey days,
air and fine rain cling, become one, hovering till at last,
languidly, rain relinquishes that embrace, consents
to fall. What patience a hill, a plain,
a band of woodland holding still, have, and the slow falling
of grey rain... Is it blind faith? Is it
merely a way to deeply rest? Is the horse
only resigned,or has it
some desireable knowledge, an enclosed meadow
quite other than its sodden field,
which patience is the key to? Has it already,
within itself, entered that sunwarmed shelter?"
There is a powerful sense of quietness about her poems. Levertov is a fine poet.
I can't resist adding a few other lovely portions:
Once Only
"All which, because it was
flame and song and granted us
joy, we thought we'd do, be, revisit,
turns out to have been what it was
that once, only; every initiation
did not begin
a series, a build-up: the marvelous
did happen in our lives, our stories
are not drab with its absence: but don't
expect now to return for more. Whatever more
there will be will be
unique as those were unique. Try
to acknowledge the next
song in its body-halo of flames as utterly
present, as now or never."
from Immersion:
"There is anger abroad in the world, a numb thunder,
because of God's silence: But how naive,
to keep wanting words we could speak ourselves...
God's abstention is only from human dialects. The holy voice
utters its woe and glory in myriad musics, in signs and portents.
Our own words are for us to speak, a way to ask and to answer."
from Noblesse Oblige
"(Meanwhile,
the April sun, cold though it is,
has opened the small daisies,
so many and so humble they get underfoot-
and don't care. Each one
a form of laughter.)
from Translucence
"This great unknowing
is part of their holiness. They are always trying
to share out joy as if it were cake or water,
something ordinary, not rare at all."
Contemplations on Immortality
I have just completed my 8th session of Rituxan plus CHOP. Such a strange feeling; now a month of unknowing and waiting to see what will happen next. I have heard this time described as the hardest part of cancer treatment. At first there was a hard focused goal, to survive chemo. Now I am only waiting, recovering from the last dose of cytotoxic drugs, and thoughts of death keep slipping into my mind.
A dear friend is visiting and I keep thinking, "If I die, maybe my husband should marry her; she would make a great mom to my baby girl". Thoughts persistently flit through my mind like this. What should I do with the remaining time? Rest and try to recover? Or run outside into the stormy wind and rain and feel the cold sting on my face, fling my body relentlessly into life and burn up the small energy I have left? I so want to feel everything before I go - there is so much more to love, to listen to, to experience and learn.
The time left is never enough, I have realized, whether I go soon or am given another twenty years. The immortality of the human soul is the most keenly felt before death. This is when it strikes home with absolute assurance: this is not all there is. There is more to life than earth, than death. Most people, regardless of their faith, seem to ultimately think of death as a journey or a passing on. Most hearts balk stubbornly at the thought of loved ones ceasing to exist altogether; we cannot accept it. Sometimes it is only on the brink of the goodbye that we realize how firmly implanted in us this belief is. "He has written eternity on their hearts", it says of us in Ecclesiastes.
Psalm 23 says, "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me." I have felt the presence of Jesus in this time, in the form of a sweet peace and rest. He surely walks in the valley of the shadow of death, walks with all who dwell there or are passing through. I am not afraid to die; I know that only by the grace of Christ I am forgiven of all guilt in my life. I throw myself entirely on the mercy of Jesus Christ, who died on the cross, and trust that Jesus will take me to be with him when I die. I have not earned my way anywhere; I only believe the promise, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved.", regardless of the amount of guilt, shame, and failure I have brought upon myself during my life.
I know that in heaven "there will be no more tears, or mourning, or crying, or pain, for He will wipe every tear from their eyes" (Revelation). "Man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward," (Proverbs), and I would gladly exchange the pain and struggle of our broken earth for the reborn beauty of an unmarred creation. But I have not been able to get to the place where I would willingly abandon my husband and one year old daughter. This is where I "rage, rage, against the dying of the light", asking repeatedly for more time to raise my baby, to love my husband. I am not ready to go, not yet. I will be like the parable of the widow seeking justice from an unjust judge, who so relentlessly queried for justice that the judge, though he was not just, finally gave her justice. Perhaps, I think, the Lord will weary of my requests and in compassion grant me what I ask. I do not know. I do trust that perfect wisdom upholds every detail of life, suffering and death on this earth, though I do not understand. I do know that the love of God is perfect, though so often the world is twisted with pain and unimaginable evil. Immortality means to me that someday all of this should become a little more clear.
A dear friend is visiting and I keep thinking, "If I die, maybe my husband should marry her; she would make a great mom to my baby girl". Thoughts persistently flit through my mind like this. What should I do with the remaining time? Rest and try to recover? Or run outside into the stormy wind and rain and feel the cold sting on my face, fling my body relentlessly into life and burn up the small energy I have left? I so want to feel everything before I go - there is so much more to love, to listen to, to experience and learn.
The time left is never enough, I have realized, whether I go soon or am given another twenty years. The immortality of the human soul is the most keenly felt before death. This is when it strikes home with absolute assurance: this is not all there is. There is more to life than earth, than death. Most people, regardless of their faith, seem to ultimately think of death as a journey or a passing on. Most hearts balk stubbornly at the thought of loved ones ceasing to exist altogether; we cannot accept it. Sometimes it is only on the brink of the goodbye that we realize how firmly implanted in us this belief is. "He has written eternity on their hearts", it says of us in Ecclesiastes.
Psalm 23 says, "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me." I have felt the presence of Jesus in this time, in the form of a sweet peace and rest. He surely walks in the valley of the shadow of death, walks with all who dwell there or are passing through. I am not afraid to die; I know that only by the grace of Christ I am forgiven of all guilt in my life. I throw myself entirely on the mercy of Jesus Christ, who died on the cross, and trust that Jesus will take me to be with him when I die. I have not earned my way anywhere; I only believe the promise, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved.", regardless of the amount of guilt, shame, and failure I have brought upon myself during my life.
I know that in heaven "there will be no more tears, or mourning, or crying, or pain, for He will wipe every tear from their eyes" (Revelation). "Man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward," (Proverbs), and I would gladly exchange the pain and struggle of our broken earth for the reborn beauty of an unmarred creation. But I have not been able to get to the place where I would willingly abandon my husband and one year old daughter. This is where I "rage, rage, against the dying of the light", asking repeatedly for more time to raise my baby, to love my husband. I am not ready to go, not yet. I will be like the parable of the widow seeking justice from an unjust judge, who so relentlessly queried for justice that the judge, though he was not just, finally gave her justice. Perhaps, I think, the Lord will weary of my requests and in compassion grant me what I ask. I do not know. I do trust that perfect wisdom upholds every detail of life, suffering and death on this earth, though I do not understand. I do know that the love of God is perfect, though so often the world is twisted with pain and unimaginable evil. Immortality means to me that someday all of this should become a little more clear.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Helping Hands Along the Way
This entry is a tribute to all our wonderful friends and family who have lifted us up on many, many hands and on many prayers all this way. There is a shoebox under our couch stuffed full of lovely cards and letters of encouragement from dear ones, and on a bad day I can take that box out and sift through, reading encouraging notes and Bible verses and reminders that we are loved and cared for by people and by a sweet heavenly Father. Some of the helpful things people have done for us, practically speaking: When I was very very ill, troupes of ladies came from our church and spent time cleaning our house once a week. Meals were arranged twice a week, often large enough for a couple of nights so that my hard-working husband did not also have to cook when he came home from work to take care of our baby daughter and put us both to bed. Now that the cancer has receded, we get two meals the week after chemo until I am well enough to cook again. When I first got sick, my employers set up a medical fund at the local bank where friends and church members deposited cash donations. Our church also accepted donations on our behalf, and simply sent us a check of the funds. My mom's group held a 4th of July bake sale at the grocery store and put up signs explaining that it was to help me fight cancer. We have been able to pay all of our medical and living bills since April, when I was diagnosed, because of this amazing generosity! My employers not only generously kept me on health insurance, but also have allowed me the freedom and flexibility to come and go at work as I have the strength, relieving me of the pressure to perform when I feel terrible. Everyone has been so kind and helpful. I surely could not ask for a better community.
History: Chemotherapy - Infusions
October 29, 2006
CHEMOTHERAPY
I just thought that sometime I will forget, as happens, what this time was like. I want to be of help to those I may encounter in the future who are going through cancer, so I had better write down a bit.
Having cancer is disorienting: you don’t know how to plan your life. As if suddenly the rush and whirl of life is suspended in freeze-frame, and you’re caught there in the air gaping like a fish. All major decisions must be delayed; you are slung from cosmic ropes like marionettes awaiting the next flip of the cords. In that waiting, pondering what it would be like for your child to grow up without her mother, for your husband to raise your daughter alone.
But you can’t think about that, you can’t think that way; you are determined that you will be there for all of that life ahead, so you charge ahead as soon as the energy revives, and then another chemo appointment comes and you are flat on your back waiting again.
As the drip finishes in the hospital each time, my nostrils start to burn something fierce, and all the involuntary snorting and gagging does nothing to dislodge the burning. I start to feel weak as they unhook the tubes and tell me to take a deep breath, yank the needle straight out of my chest. They cover the large needle hole with gauze and I press on the pad, hoping the blood will not run down into my shirt again on the way to the car. All the strength has left my body. I just want to lay down and find oblivion. My head hurts. My husband walks me down to the car and I climb wearily into the passenger seat, slumping against the door. Sometimes I throw up that night. The next day I go in the morning and get the Neulasta shot in my belly fat. If it is cold, it really stings. Sometimes the nurse will warm it in their hands before giving it, and that helps.
By that afternoon or night, the Neulasta has kicked my butt, leaving my body aching all over like I have the flu. My throat and neck get swollen and it aches to take a deep breath. This lasts for about three days. I also get a shallow, nonproductive, restricted cough that won’t go away, but lessens before the next session. I don’t want to talk to anyone for the first week because my throat is filled with mucus and I drool constantly, spitting and gagging unless I am eating. I lost weight after the initial surgery and chemo, because of the nausea, but since then I have gained 20 pounds from eating to quell the nasty feeling in my mouth, throat and GI tract. It’s better than getting too skinny, I know, but it’s just an exhausting undertaking to swap out all my clothes again for my dreaded pregnancy clothes. I miss my favorite jeans.
Prednisone: Each day after chemo for five days I have to take Prednisone, a sick nasty pill I can only choke down with gulps of chocolate milk. I dread it every morning, gagging if I look at the bottle. By the time the Neulasta and initial chemo effects have worn down, the steroid pills have worked my shoulders and upper back into tight whorls of knots and I try to set up a massage appointment, one of the loveliest parts of life lately. ;) The massage seems to help, and my oncologist gave me a prescription, so it's paid for by my insurance, hooray!
Stomach Pain: Dr. Milder had given me lorazepam/adivan and promethazine for anti-nausea, but they both really knock me silly for a long stretch of hours, so now I rarely take them. I take an herbal remedy pill that coats my stomach, drink “Stomach Ease” herbal tea, and with each meal take a digestive enzyme from the Seattle naturopath, Dr. Labriola. My entire GI tract is huge, swollen, distended from being killed off by the chemo. I drink kombucha, a fermented tea (guava is my favorite) and eat yogurt to help restore the natural flora. It eases after a few days and lowers into a vague stomach unease. I've also found VeggieDelight helpful, a blended jar of fermented vegetables they sell at our local health food store.
Insomnia: The prednisone gives me insomnia and I often can’t sleep until 1am. For a while, the calcium/magnesium pills from the naturopath were helping me to sleep, but the last couple of times it just hasn’t been working. A friend just gave me a little baggie of melatonin, and that has been working like a charm. Melatonin isn’t addictive, also. I read somewhere that sleep is one key factor in helping cancer patients recover, so I value it highly right now. I think the melatonin might cause crazy dreams!
Vitamin D: I’ve also read about the importance of vitamin D, so I’m trying to get myself and my baby girl out into the sun to soak up some rays every afternoon, after this first terrible week when I lay on the couch waiting. The sun feels so good. Now that it’s fall the air is turning very chill and we can’t expose our skin to its rays. Spring will be welcome. I read a few articles on PubMed and apparently the amount of skin cancers has decreased as people use more sunscreen - but the amount of far more serious, deadly internal cancers has increased because people aren't getting enough sun for their bodies to create sufficient vitamin D.
Neuropathy: My fingers started to turn numb after a couple of chemo sessions, and the numbness has crawled down my hands into my wrists and turned into a throbbing, aching pain. It’s nerve damage from the chemo leaking out of the capillaries in my fingers, caused by vincristine, part of the CHOP regimen. When the pain got to this point and my typing started to really go, Dr. Milder decided that I could skip the vincristine for my 7th chemo session. Glory be!! I was so happy. Massage seems to help me to regain feeling and to lessen the pain, too.
Acupuncture: My acupuncturist says he can help this neuropathy to heal more quickly, and I’ve been seeing him about every two weeks. He has helped a bit with the psycho “monkey brain” and insomnia from the steroids, and with the headaches, too. He also does points to support my liver and kidneys, under attack from the chemo. The needles do hurt, but I am getting used to it and it’s not too bad. Just tiny pokes. At first, the needles sent jolts of electricity down my wrists and ankles, quite painful, but that hasn’t happened for a while.
Music: My mom sent me a few CDs, mentioning a study in which music significantly relieved pain. I have found much relief in beautiful, soothing music, and have spent a while on ITunes, trying not to buy too many songs! It really helps. I have found that in the first week of pain and nausea, anything that takes me out of my body is helpful. Movies, thrilling novels, music, and entertainment all help to relieve the awareness of pain for a time.
Associations: The mental associations with chemo have just been growing every time we visit Swedish. This time we went down a day early to see Dr. Milder, and even though I had no chemo, I started drooling when we walked down the hospital hall. That afternoon I felt knocked out and weak, almost as if I’d had an infusion! If I look at something that I wore down to Seattle before it has been sent through the laundry, I gag. If I see or think about food I ate in the chemo infusion room, I’ll gag. I am taking care not to allow any patterns to build up around our visits, as much as possible; we stopped getting those delicious peach filled piroshkis after a couple of visits, and we try to buy lunch from a different store every time. The hospital provided lunches just make me nauseous at the thought! I wear different outfits each time, even though it’s hard to find something that is low cut enough for the needle to access the port on my chest. (Sometimes I slink into the hospital feeling like a hoochie-mama with all that sexy cleavage showing - oh well!) I don’t want to have to throw out any of my clothes just because they have too strong of a chemo association! Sometimes lately I’ll just be talking and if I say a certain word like “Prednisone”, “chemo”, or “nasal burning” I’ll involuntarily gag or snort through my nose as if trying to blow out the water that is burning.
The Good Parts: Chemo is working!! The Rituxan/rituximab has already done wonders, removing almost all pain from the main tumor within two sessions. Amazing. After the first eight days or so, I begin to feel a lot better and to really enjoy life again. The most lasting effects have been a general weakness, dizziness and lack of breath. They say it will take about a year to really recover my strength, but I definitely feel able to play and to enjoy life, just at a slower pace, the last week before I go back for the next chemo. This gives me good hope that a couple of weeks after my last chemo, I will be able to be up and to work and play with my family in a good way. I just have to take it slow and easy as we go.
Still ahead: One more chemo. One month of daily radiation, and surgery to remove the port-o-cath.
CHEMOTHERAPY
I just thought that sometime I will forget, as happens, what this time was like. I want to be of help to those I may encounter in the future who are going through cancer, so I had better write down a bit.
Having cancer is disorienting: you don’t know how to plan your life. As if suddenly the rush and whirl of life is suspended in freeze-frame, and you’re caught there in the air gaping like a fish. All major decisions must be delayed; you are slung from cosmic ropes like marionettes awaiting the next flip of the cords. In that waiting, pondering what it would be like for your child to grow up without her mother, for your husband to raise your daughter alone.
But you can’t think about that, you can’t think that way; you are determined that you will be there for all of that life ahead, so you charge ahead as soon as the energy revives, and then another chemo appointment comes and you are flat on your back waiting again.
As the drip finishes in the hospital each time, my nostrils start to burn something fierce, and all the involuntary snorting and gagging does nothing to dislodge the burning. I start to feel weak as they unhook the tubes and tell me to take a deep breath, yank the needle straight out of my chest. They cover the large needle hole with gauze and I press on the pad, hoping the blood will not run down into my shirt again on the way to the car. All the strength has left my body. I just want to lay down and find oblivion. My head hurts. My husband walks me down to the car and I climb wearily into the passenger seat, slumping against the door. Sometimes I throw up that night. The next day I go in the morning and get the Neulasta shot in my belly fat. If it is cold, it really stings. Sometimes the nurse will warm it in their hands before giving it, and that helps.
By that afternoon or night, the Neulasta has kicked my butt, leaving my body aching all over like I have the flu. My throat and neck get swollen and it aches to take a deep breath. This lasts for about three days. I also get a shallow, nonproductive, restricted cough that won’t go away, but lessens before the next session. I don’t want to talk to anyone for the first week because my throat is filled with mucus and I drool constantly, spitting and gagging unless I am eating. I lost weight after the initial surgery and chemo, because of the nausea, but since then I have gained 20 pounds from eating to quell the nasty feeling in my mouth, throat and GI tract. It’s better than getting too skinny, I know, but it’s just an exhausting undertaking to swap out all my clothes again for my dreaded pregnancy clothes. I miss my favorite jeans.
Prednisone: Each day after chemo for five days I have to take Prednisone, a sick nasty pill I can only choke down with gulps of chocolate milk. I dread it every morning, gagging if I look at the bottle. By the time the Neulasta and initial chemo effects have worn down, the steroid pills have worked my shoulders and upper back into tight whorls of knots and I try to set up a massage appointment, one of the loveliest parts of life lately. ;) The massage seems to help, and my oncologist gave me a prescription, so it's paid for by my insurance, hooray!
Stomach Pain: Dr. Milder had given me lorazepam/adivan and promethazine for anti-nausea, but they both really knock me silly for a long stretch of hours, so now I rarely take them. I take an herbal remedy pill that coats my stomach, drink “Stomach Ease” herbal tea, and with each meal take a digestive enzyme from the Seattle naturopath, Dr. Labriola. My entire GI tract is huge, swollen, distended from being killed off by the chemo. I drink kombucha, a fermented tea (guava is my favorite) and eat yogurt to help restore the natural flora. It eases after a few days and lowers into a vague stomach unease. I've also found VeggieDelight helpful, a blended jar of fermented vegetables they sell at our local health food store.
Insomnia: The prednisone gives me insomnia and I often can’t sleep until 1am. For a while, the calcium/magnesium pills from the naturopath were helping me to sleep, but the last couple of times it just hasn’t been working. A friend just gave me a little baggie of melatonin, and that has been working like a charm. Melatonin isn’t addictive, also. I read somewhere that sleep is one key factor in helping cancer patients recover, so I value it highly right now. I think the melatonin might cause crazy dreams!
Vitamin D: I’ve also read about the importance of vitamin D, so I’m trying to get myself and my baby girl out into the sun to soak up some rays every afternoon, after this first terrible week when I lay on the couch waiting. The sun feels so good. Now that it’s fall the air is turning very chill and we can’t expose our skin to its rays. Spring will be welcome. I read a few articles on PubMed and apparently the amount of skin cancers has decreased as people use more sunscreen - but the amount of far more serious, deadly internal cancers has increased because people aren't getting enough sun for their bodies to create sufficient vitamin D.
Neuropathy: My fingers started to turn numb after a couple of chemo sessions, and the numbness has crawled down my hands into my wrists and turned into a throbbing, aching pain. It’s nerve damage from the chemo leaking out of the capillaries in my fingers, caused by vincristine, part of the CHOP regimen. When the pain got to this point and my typing started to really go, Dr. Milder decided that I could skip the vincristine for my 7th chemo session. Glory be!! I was so happy. Massage seems to help me to regain feeling and to lessen the pain, too.
Acupuncture: My acupuncturist says he can help this neuropathy to heal more quickly, and I’ve been seeing him about every two weeks. He has helped a bit with the psycho “monkey brain” and insomnia from the steroids, and with the headaches, too. He also does points to support my liver and kidneys, under attack from the chemo. The needles do hurt, but I am getting used to it and it’s not too bad. Just tiny pokes. At first, the needles sent jolts of electricity down my wrists and ankles, quite painful, but that hasn’t happened for a while.
Music: My mom sent me a few CDs, mentioning a study in which music significantly relieved pain. I have found much relief in beautiful, soothing music, and have spent a while on ITunes, trying not to buy too many songs! It really helps. I have found that in the first week of pain and nausea, anything that takes me out of my body is helpful. Movies, thrilling novels, music, and entertainment all help to relieve the awareness of pain for a time.
Associations: The mental associations with chemo have just been growing every time we visit Swedish. This time we went down a day early to see Dr. Milder, and even though I had no chemo, I started drooling when we walked down the hospital hall. That afternoon I felt knocked out and weak, almost as if I’d had an infusion! If I look at something that I wore down to Seattle before it has been sent through the laundry, I gag. If I see or think about food I ate in the chemo infusion room, I’ll gag. I am taking care not to allow any patterns to build up around our visits, as much as possible; we stopped getting those delicious peach filled piroshkis after a couple of visits, and we try to buy lunch from a different store every time. The hospital provided lunches just make me nauseous at the thought! I wear different outfits each time, even though it’s hard to find something that is low cut enough for the needle to access the port on my chest. (Sometimes I slink into the hospital feeling like a hoochie-mama with all that sexy cleavage showing - oh well!) I don’t want to have to throw out any of my clothes just because they have too strong of a chemo association! Sometimes lately I’ll just be talking and if I say a certain word like “Prednisone”, “chemo”, or “nasal burning” I’ll involuntarily gag or snort through my nose as if trying to blow out the water that is burning.
The Good Parts: Chemo is working!! The Rituxan/rituximab has already done wonders, removing almost all pain from the main tumor within two sessions. Amazing. After the first eight days or so, I begin to feel a lot better and to really enjoy life again. The most lasting effects have been a general weakness, dizziness and lack of breath. They say it will take about a year to really recover my strength, but I definitely feel able to play and to enjoy life, just at a slower pace, the last week before I go back for the next chemo. This gives me good hope that a couple of weeks after my last chemo, I will be able to be up and to work and play with my family in a good way. I just have to take it slow and easy as we go.
Still ahead: One more chemo. One month of daily radiation, and surgery to remove the port-o-cath.
Introduction
Today is the beginning of my very first blog. I was diagnosed with lymphoma in April 2006, and wanted to share some of my experiences with others to whom it may be of use. If you are going through cancer treatment, or know someone who is, I hope that this blog will be helpful as you navigate the stormy waters. Cheers!
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