Yesterday, I spent about a third of my day at the hospital getting the two-week check-in. The oncology nurses took my vitals, flushed the port, and did some bloodwork to make sure my liver and kidneys are functioning well. Same old, same old. Except not.
I woke up around 4 AM with nerve pain in my lower back and cramping all along my right leg. I had noticed the day before that there was a difference in sensitivity and flexibility, that my left leg felt normal and my right leg did not. I’m old enough to think, “Cardiac event? Stroke?!” and remember all that dire fine print in the consent form I signed prior to beginning chemo. But I’m cognizant enough to calm down and weigh the odds that it’s neuropathy. Either way, I did not go back to sleep.
With another nor’easter on the horizon, the treatment bay felt fraught with tension. The forecast called for double-digit snow accumulation beginning … sometime. I could promise we’d be there without fail or difficulty, because Somerville is so close to Boston. But the other patients who were there receiving treatment were noticeably anxious. Getting there is one thing when you feel physically tired and emotionally weary. Getting home, with all those toxins roiling in your veins just waiting to produce some sort of reaction, is another.
The clincher was the port: once again, it worked beautifully when the nurse injected saline but it would not cooperate when she tried to draw blood. I went through the entire weirdly yogic repertoire of poses – standing, lying down, lifting my arms, twisting and turning – before Paula gave up and ordered the ‘drano.’ That’s what they call the special cleansing goo that unblocks whatever gunk sometimes blocks or obstructs the port. I got a dose of it, Steve and I packed up, and headed over to the surgical waiting area to chill on the comfy couches for an hour or so.
Except, I wasn’t chill. Steve gazed across the room at a particular chair and murmured, “Waiting here during your surgery was very hard.” That made me look around at the other people seated nearby – their restlessness, their postures, the grimly pinched expressions on their faces. I felt surrounded by cancer from a different angle: from Steve’s angle. It was almost more than I could bear.
The unclogging worked, we made it home before the weather worsened, and I spent the rest of the afternoon lying low. There’s a new rhythm to my days even when I feel less dispirited – the low-grade fatigue starts to intensify during the afternoon and reaches a nadir around 4 PM. I’ve spent many a tea-time lying awake in bed with one or both of the cats as the late winter sun sets early. Sometimes I doze. Yesterday I couldn’t manage it. I simply felt too resentful and too tired in other ways.
In one undeniable way, chemo has been the precise opposite of what I expected. I thought the first three rounds would be harder emotionally just because they were first. I anticipated constant nausea and that hasn’t happened. I’ve been incapacitated on certain days in the cycle but completely normal during others. Now that I’m coasting downhill, it feels more difficult. The constant hum of fatigue just saps my morale, and, that light at the end of this tunnel is not as comforting as I expected it to be. I knew there would not be a definitive ‘end’ to the treatment for five years, but I didn’t feel it. Now I do.
This morning, the day after, I’m watching the snow fall and listening to the neighborhood stir to life. I’d really like to wield a broom, at least, and clear the front steps. But I won’t. I’m probably going back to bed to try and sleep a little more, in order to clear the lingering gloom from yesterday. Sleep and water are still surprisingly helpful, and right now there’s enough of the day ahead to salvage if I can get my head right.
medicinal sausage 