I woke up as soon as I heard birds start to sing – these days, that’s around 4:30 AM – when the sky still looks full dark to human eyes. The cats started to tussle, Steve made a grump-snuffle sort of sound. I laid there listening to the familiar music with my heart just pounding in my throat.
Today I’ll receive the final chemotherapy treatment, 6 out of 6, and I’m extra glad because recovery from the last one was nothing short of brutal. Constant nausea and jittery tension, an overwhelming urge to chew on something 24/7, sleeplessness, gastrointestinal mayhem … I haven’t written about any of it because it just started to subside about three days ago, just in time for me to prepare for the next round, and that made me angry. The report I’d give would read something like the lyrics to ‘I’m Henry the Eighth I am.’
Forget everything I’ve complained about thus far as being ‘the worst.’ The last three weeks top that list and I’m deeply worried the aftermath of this round will be more of the same times two.
My blood pressure: on average, lower than when I started. My kidney output, my liver values, other key metrics in my blood work: all well within normal. One of the nurses told me I am among the small group of patients who tolerated chemo ‘exceptionally well.’ Steve was listening and giving me his “Pay attention!” face.
I know that nurse was being reassuring and feeling happy for me. I know full well that other cancer patients have suffered far more, for far longer, than I have. However, I don’t want to talk about that yet. I’m not done. The doctors and nurses have finished their contributions, that’s true. They all assure me that, statistically, it’s unlikely I will suffer any catastrophic side effects from this final treatment. But I still have to go through the things that will make me feel wretched, that linger and intensify long before they abate. I’m hoping the next three weeks won’t be hellish times two.
Now I’m home, watching the Neulasta blink while the cats do fly-bys because I smell so intriguing. I’ve gnawed the ears and head off this chocolate Easter bunny, and there’s a steroids-fueled voice in my mind urging me to nom down the rest of it all in one sitting. I’m feeling tired from waking up and getting up too early, the first odd temperature differential is coming online with a light sweat, and I have that peculiar plump, waterlogged sensation that comes from getting cram-jam, filled-to-the-rim with extra I.V. fluids.
I want to feel lucky. The human, frontal-lobe part of my brain that thinks and communicates with complex language does understand that ‘lucky’ is accurate. But so is the word I already used to describe the last three weeks: hellish. My lizard, instinctual brain comprehends a correlation between sitting in that treatment bay, getting poked and handled by people in white coats, and lying around feeling helpless and weak just afterwards. Each of my brains are telling me things that are true, and things that are not helpful, while the Neulasta device and the clock both tell me tomorrow will bring about terrible things.
I’m steering the Chariot, remember? Right: Giddyup.
medicinal sausage 