Today is a chemotherapy day, and I'm writing from my chair in the infusion center. I thought writing while receiving chemotherapy might serve two purposes -- make use of the time I have to spend in this chair and also add a different perspective to what I write. Today I'm very aware of the medicinal smells, the tone and tenor of conversations between nurses and patients, the way other patients manage their situations. Each person is dealing with a different cancer at a different stage in its development, and each deals with their time in the chair differently. Some sleep, some chat with friends, some read, some sit quietly and seemingly introspectively. I know how easy it is to turn inward and reflect upon my situation, not just here in the chair, but upon the disease and its effects that put me here.
I am frequently asked some version of, "How are you?" Usually the question is a part of a greeting, and it's a question all of us ask one another regularly when we meet. The nurses ask the question before each chemo session, but ask it in a slightly different way, "How are you feeling today?" They are quick to note any hesitation in answering, which prompts follow up with other more specific, clinical questions -- "Are you having any pain today?" "How did you feel after last week's treatment?" "Any nausea?" There is clearly purpose in the questions they ask.
I think there is also purpose in the "how are you question" asked by virtually everyone I meet, whether it's reassurance that I am OK or their way of communicating concern. I generally answer with an "ok" or "fine" without much elaboration. The real answer, however, is so much more complicated than that and has physical, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual dimensions. Physically, I feel better than I have in months. My appetite has improved; I've gained back much of the weight I lost; I'm running and walking; but pain still persists -- it's manageable but a constant reminder that an aggressive cancer has established itself in me. Intellectually, I understand that and also that I have an aggressive doctor who is treating me. I understand that everything that can be done to improve my survivability will be done. However, when it comes to translating knowing to feeling, it's a different story. Emotionally, I've been on a rollercoaster and last week experienced more dips -- some small, others those 90-foot drop screamers -- than high points.
It began with my doctor's appointment where I learned of the mixed results of my treatment up to then. As I indicated when I wrote last week, most of the results have been good. However, my focus was drawn to the fact that the tumors in my liver had not shown a positive response to the chemotherapy and had, in fact, shown marginal growth. Those results, even though not unexpected, were disappointing. I spent the better part of last week focusing on that disappointment, turning it into a funk, a depression that regularly sapped my energy and distracted me. The feeling was not unlike the images of the storm that TV weather personalities were showing last week -- a spiraling low pressure system that was drawing energy from surrounding areas of higher pressure. It was difficult not to think about my cancer, about dying from it, and feeling a profound sadness about all that I would lose were that to happen. Tears flowed frequently; it took so much energy to try to counter it and left me weary. I don’t mean to make it sound like I was a tortured soul each and every minute of every day. Far from it; walks and talks with friends, watching movies cuddled on the couch with Jane, playing with Violet, my granddaughter, a night out for dinner with Jane, Matt, Jess, Lucas and Violet, and more good things came my way. Thoughts about the cancer and loss just seemed to intrude more and stay longer than in the past.
Things are better today. Yesterday while riding my bike home from work, feeling some self-pity, I was passed on a long uphill by several members of the Marin Catholic mountain bike club. Had the trail been dry, I would literally have been left in their dust. Their youthful enthusiasm for riding and for life seemed to flick a switch inside of me. At the top of the hill, a place called Five Corners, I stopped to sit in the sun and take everything in – the smells, the early spring wildflowers, the oaks, the appearance and reappearance of the young riders and their coaches as they did hill repeats. Somehow, something had changed. The sense of loss I had been feeling so deeply was replaced by a sense of “having.” I have been and continue to be blessed by a loving family and friends. Jane and I have been husband and wife and best friends for over 38 years. We have raised two great kids who remain close to us as adults. We have a granddaughter who is joy incarnate. And we have a community of friends and family whose support is unquestioned – Jane refers to them as our angels. In so many ways, my life could not be better – I just need to remember and hold on to that as a counterbalance to the darker thoughts and the feelings which attend them. And those will return; it’s an expected part of what is now normal for me.
It’s getting toward the end of my session and I should be freed from the tubes and my IV shortly. I’ve begun to develop “anticipatory” nausea the last couple of trips over here and tend to be queasy throughout the process, so I’ll be happy to get away from the sights and smells of the hospital and get out in the air.
So, before I go, how am I? I’m doing my best to fight my cancer. I have good days and not so good days. It’s a difficult cross to bear, but one made lighter by family, friends and faith. I know I am loved.
Peace,
Don
