DAY 065 -- "All My Petals"
A return to the road to forever today, two weeks after Day Sixty-Four and my all-in, almost-out flirtation with testing my expiration date.
After a month's absence, it was back to the chemo- and immunotherapy infusion unit (is it possible to already have nostalgia for the room full of semi-comfy recliners, IV poles & pumps, springy tray tables and the mini-fridge always stocked with those good no-name puddings?). I discover that I've missed my sessions there, like finding peace in an anti-refuge of great and small expectations.
And, of course, the staff who treat me like a regular: that same-time next-time barroom patron whose time and tastes are established enough to have his "usual" space and drink reserved and still frosty-full at unhappy hour.
But, today they also surprised me with a strawberry cake and a wonderfully discordant rendering of Happy Birthday, its tempo and unisons way off as they always are, but big smiles in lined-up scrubs harmony.
-- Plan to resume chemotherapy therapy regimen after I'm backed off the steroids and antibiotics in the next two weeks, but this time without the Keytruda that was quite possibly the precipitant villain of my intestinal near glory hole revolution. Sorry, Merck.
-- As we talked, lab results came back, and they "look great." We also reviewed my last two weeks post-discharge at home: bowels returning to normal, appetite improving, extremity muscles reconditioning, mindset optimizing and Harley daydreaming resuming.
-- For the record, they're calling it (Day Sixty-Four) "immune-mediated colitis." Doc tells me that folks in my cancer stage boat suffer this "about ten percent" of the time. I'm calling that hospital stay my temporary membership with the liquid minority (for gut-driven reasons we needn't belabor), and much as I love statistics, I hate statistics.
But, I did leave today resolved for now to at least keep my one thriving and well-watered hurry on spring bloom-in-the-bunch status and get on with it.
Next birthday, however, I'd like to re-join the solid majority and have all my mettle in all my petals.
DAY 063 -- "One Woman's Cat"
I now have a wife who has both a husband and a cat with cancer.
I've noticed that she shows her affections using the same words and gestures one way with her sick cat Comet, and different ways with me.
Wait. That's not true. They are the same differences.
Every life story has (or should have) animal elements, preferably where simple visuals define all of that story's easiest and hardest of times. Like this one with Diane.
Or, this one: another cat reclining on the front porch: contemplative, reconciled, lying outside a normal door used for this life's normal comings and goings.
But, handy nearby, there's also an urgent, makeshift abnormal door clawed and pushed through a screen, for use when that easy, formal normal door just won't suffice.
It's a portal that now lets the good in and out along with the bad (more on this soon).
Plan A. Plan B. Done.
Follow-up today at the infusion unit for first bloodwork since my last first new chemo treatment (see Day Sixty-Two).
After chasing my dehydrated rolling vein for a puncture or two, we got a successful draw. Then, it was wait for results and a visit with my reviewing oncologist.
Time to pass the time with crosswords, practicing my what-me-worry look, and checking my must-say list. As a nurse, I've always advised my patients to make a list of questions, concerns, dirty jokes to tell the visiting docs, because too often we'll forget and remember too late what we wanted to ask them, especially if we're in high-stakes medical mode (See Day Fifty-One).
--- I've lost a few pounds in the days since Day Sixty-Two. Food has returned to tasting like boiled cardboard, blunting my appetite. You already know what that spiraling, descending circle of diminishing returns means, so let's try to keep it down.
--- I had one entertaining episode of nausea/vomiting on the third day after my infuse-o-rama. (If you need more description than that, revisit Day Nine.) I restarted the anti-nausea med, and it's kept my innards in line. If I heed the signs, I can see me coming and head me off at the preemptive med pass.
But, the problem is getting stomach and brain to buddy-up when nausea/vomiting is lurking, even if I can control it. The brain still becomes an anti-hero and pulls the stomach away from the table.
--- For a few days after Day Sixty-Two, my rashes and itching subsided drastically, but they're returning. Itch, scratch, open sore, rinse, lather, repeat.
--- My "trigger finger" fingers also disappeared for a few days after treatment, but they're back as well.
Oncology Doc arrived with the lab results. I read him my list, and we met minds on the interventions: med for nausea, ointments and anti-itch med for skin, and postpone my decision for now on whether or not my claw-fingers will interfere with Harley throttling, clutching and braking.
"You're a bit neutropenic," he points blankly.
But, he speaks this way to me knowing my vocational background and the knowledge-is-humor-is-power guy thing I have going on. We're both at our ease with doctor/nursey-talk.
It has to taste bad to be good.
One woman's cat is another man's cat.