I'm writing from a house on the beach at Stinson Beach Sunday morning with a wam sun on my back and the continuous sounds of the surf in the background. The sun, the sense of getting away, have all but erased the grey funkiness of last week. My third chemo session was this past Friday, and I'm starting to feel the effects of the cumulative treatments. Yesterday, the new "f" word in my vocabulary, fatigue, was something of a constant, plus occasional nausea -- nothing too bad, but just enough to make it more difficult to eat, and eat I must. On the plus side, my abdominal pain has decreased a bit these past two days which means fewer drugs have been needed to manage it, always a good thing since I now have a small pharmacopia that I need to have with me -- injectable heparin twice a day to prevent more blood clots from forming (a side effect of the cancer), various pain killers, anti-nausea meds, anti-anxiety meds, pancreatic enzymes, stool softeners and laxatives to counteract the constipation that the pain meds can cause . . . all of this part of what now passes for normal.
It's interesting that when I write or talk about my disease and the treatment of it, sometimes I slip into a third-person frame of thinking -- and, no, I haven't started referring to myself as Don, ala Jimmy in an old Seinfeld episode. It's just that there are times when it is still hard to believe that this is happening to me; it's easier to think of it happening to this guy named Don rather than me. It doesn't last long, though, as I am all to often reminded that we are one and the same.
So we go forward. The first cycle of chemo is done; I get this upcoming week off to recover and get blood counts back up before starting my second cycle the week of the 21st. If my blood work is OK by Wednesday of that week when I meet with my doctor, I may be able to have my first treatment of the second cycle then. Otherwise it's scheduled for Friday the 25th. I've also started acupuncture on a weekly basis to help deal with some of the symtoms -- pain in particular.
Since I'm at Stinson, the metaphor today would have to deal with the Dipsea, a race I just began running ten years ago, but got hooked on immediately. Since 1999, the t-shirts given to those who finish the race say "survivor" on the sleeve; I wear one of those shirts to chemo as a reminder of the hard work, pain, and will required to do well in the Dipsea. While the prize is different -- a longer life vs. a black shirt -- the same attributes, especially the willingness to endure discomfort and pain, to listen to that inner voice that says, "You can do this, never give up," are essential to surviving this disease.
And as always, I appreciate the continued support of friends and family and others, some who I have talked to but have yet to meet -- cancer survivors whose own stories are models of hope. Thank-you to one and all, whether it's for a card, email, or your generosity.
