Chemo Number Two 

(A Blog Post with More Medical Info and Fewer Laughs)

On Monday, March 1st, I had my second chemo infusion. It's been an up and down day (as may be evidenced by the fact that I am writing this at 1 AM Tuesday.)

Although going to Kaiser for the infusion feels like walking the green mile or something, I actually was quite calm by the time we arrived.When they took my blood pressure (which had been high before the first infusion), it was 120/70. 

They brought us into the back, and I was soon hooked up to an IV and started on the first bag of chemicals. Tom likes to sit and read every bit of instructions and ask the nurses interminable questions (which is, truth be told, why I bring him) but I made myself comfortable on the reclining chair with two pillows and a heating bad for my back, and pretty early on I fell asleep. It's not exactly a restful sleep - the infusers make some godawful noises, including an alert when they are done that makes you want to jump out the nearest window. But I was relaxed and feeling no pain.

I had also baked a pound cake with a maple glaze for the nurses, and you wouldn't have believed the reaction this brought - you'd think I'd given them winning lottery tickets.  By the time the chemo drugs were gone, the pound cake was gone too.

After leaving, though, I have to admit that, in some ways, it got harder. I came home and basically fell apart. What I was feeling was the loss of who I am, who I used to be. And it's a hard thing to experience. I look at my legs, and it freaks me out. I have always had very thin ankles (I can reach my fingers completely around my ankles, and have always been able to) but my thighs have always been pretty massive. Buying pants for me has always been difficult, not for the waist size (which has been 34" since high school) but to be able to get them over my thighs. 

Now my thighs are significantly smaller, and the bones in my leg show pretty clearly through my skin. How I look has never been a huge issue for me, but this feels different - it's being able to recognize how I look. My legs don't feel like they are mine.

It's not just that. I cut my long hair off, thinking it would be easier to deal with during chemo, which has been right. But now my hair doesn't feel like it is mine. It acts differently, it lies differently, and it is still falling out. I'm not completely bald, but my hair is definitely thinner than it ever has been, and it....feels wrong. I don't recognize the feeling of my hair when I run my hand over it. It's like touching someone else's head. The skin on my hands and arms is weird too, and the texture is definitely changed. 

So what happened today was I felt even more loneliness. As I have described, a lesson I'm learning here in Chemoworld is that I'm not my body, and my body is not me. Inside this shrinking container there is me, there is the body I have lived with all these years, there is the cancer that I am hoping to evict, and there are a myriad of toxic drugs that are supposed to be helping. In the midst of the pandemic, when most people are feeling isolated, I'm feeling crowded. And yet alone.

All that being said, my energy level is definitely better. I did take a 2+ hour nap this afternoon (one of those "naps" that feels more like I've sunk into a coma) but have otherwise been awake and largely responsive. I didn't do a great deal, but I can clearly imagine getting off my ass in the next few days and doing some things - finishing figuring the wiring for the intercom system, installing the new plug on the second Frigidaire Flair, things like that. I don't think I'll be up for heavy construction any time soon, but I am starting to see how my body is adjusting to the influx of chemicals and finding ways of protecting me from them.

And my lab results have been good. My blood work is fairly normal, even my white blood cells. It does feel like the chemo is truly focusing on the cancer, and I feel different. I can't really explain this part, but I can feel some of the cancer in a weird way. I feel pressure in places and, in one of the tumors on my liver, I felt a scraping sensation. Those appear to be gone. The whatever-it-is in my esophagus, which I mostly was aware of when I ate, doesn't seem to be tweaking me when I eat. 

I don't know what tomorrow (excuse me, today) will bring. As the latest dose circulates through my body, I might feel sicker or more impacted by it. Maybe I am still deluding myself. I know there are still many hard times ahead. But I have to let myself believe that what I am feeling is real, and that I am getting some results from all this. 

Don't worry, none of this portends my giving up on my plans. I still dream of the Kenney Cottage, and of moving it to the country and restoring it. When I was passed out today, I dreamed (quite vividly) that a developer wanted to buy our lot on Parker Street, as they wanted to put up another large building. So we moved both houses up to our land in the country, and had a compound consisting of the Parker Street houses and the Kenney Cottage. I'd love to figure out how we could purchase 5-10 acres and make some of these dreams happen soon. Bringing the solid redwood Kenney Cottage up to Sonoma seems a little like coals to Newcastle, but I imagine sitting in those rooms with the redwood walls, and looking out the windows at the redwoods growing nearby. Whatever houses join the Kenney Cottage there, I hope my beloved friends will come and join us there, and we can celebrate still being here.