#231: My Body at War With Itself

Last night I was sick again. This thing is not giving up without a fight. I was actually angry as I hung over the bowl. "Get out, you bastard," I mumbled between heaves. "You're not going to beat me. Get out." Mrs P thought I was sending her away at first, then she realized I was talking to the cancer. Sure it's crazy, but so is sitting on the edge of the tub with somebody who is puking his guts out. We all have our little madnesses. That's as good a definition of love as any, I guess.

I definitely feel as if this is the hard part. My body is revolting against the treatment pretty violently. The nausea is worse than it's ever been, and it comes faster than the drugs can keep up. My skin is really charred looking. I use the lotion that they gave me, but still look more like a burned french fry around my neck and upper chest. The fatigue amazes me. I think I'm probably awake for about five hours a day. The radiation is taking its toll.

My consolation is that if I feel this bad, the cancer must feel a whole lot worse.

Back when we made my original treatment plan, my last chemo was scheduled for tomorrow. Mercifully, I've been spared that third date. The cisplatin on top of the radiation was too much for my bone marrow to handle. Thank God. From what I've read and from what Mrs P's brother is going through, I think chemo is much harder on the body than this radiation I'm getting. Those people are the real cancer warriors. I feel like I'm way behind the front lines compared to some of my friends who are getting weekly infusions. Weekly, for god's sake! I don't see how they can live through it.

Been quiet this morning. Mrs P has gone to church. No stomach churning for me today. So far. I know better than to try to  predict the future. Two big events to hope for this week. I want to get to the park to see RENT. I also want to see my last radiation treatment on Thursday. The weather forecast is threatening all week, but that's typical late July weather in the Bluegrass. I'm just hoping for those late night storms that always make sleeping so pleasant. That will keep things cool and let the cast play their hearts out without worrying about the rain. Weather won't affect my treatments so much, though I'm always soaked with sweat when it's a rainy morning. I don't know if it's the humidity or if the damp just starts a kind of wicking effect in my skin. I know it's kind of ookey when I lift my bald head up from the plastic pillow block and it pops off with that wet sucking sound.

I have spoken with Jake about hacking into my blogger account. I've told him it's OK for him to write, but that he just needs to ask me first. I have a feeling his mamma may have helped him, but he is too loyal to narc her out. I can respect that.

Peace,
pennsy

#229: Morning Thunder

Today began with a bang. First a flash, then a bang. We had a lightning strike very close to our house. Close enough that the fire engines went past our front door on the way there. I was relieved that they didn't stop to put out any burning trees in our yard.

Soon after that, Mrs P curled up next to me and moments later, I experienced the morning ritual that has plagued expectant mothers from time immemorial. No, I did not sing, "Oh how I hate to throw up in the morning." But I could have.

I have been pretty much unconscious for the rest of the day. Now here it is almost time for me to take my sleeping pills and I really don't know what the evening will be like.

Our brother-in-law has had a rough day of it, too. He was very sick this morning and wound up in the ER getting fluids for his dehydration. His therapy is all chemo and I don't envy him a bit. I may be miserable from time to time, but I sure don't suffer like some folks do.

We battle my own dryness with Gatorade through the tube and as much water as I can drink, which isn't much. It tastes terrible. I can't imagine trying to eat through this. When the doc told me I would need the tube because I wouldn't want to eat, I thought he was crazy. I have never not wanted to eat. What I imagined was that swallowing would become so painful that I couldn't eat. It never occurred to me that tasting food would become so unpleasant that I would rather have Gatorade shot into a hose in my stomach than have water on my tongue. Score one more for the doc, who I'm glad to say is scoring very well these days.

Beyond that, cancer was pretty boring today. I guess I should be grateful. Boring is pretty rare. I guess what's happening is that I'm skipping ahead to the next step. Now that treatment is almost over, there's not much left to do except wait to see if I'm better. I'm not looking forward to that, because it could be a long wait. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to some of these side effects abating, especially the nausea and the ability to taste. What I wouldn't give to enjoy a nice bowl of clear broth right now.

Now that would be exciting.

Peace,
pennsy

#207: Not an Easy Morning

Not an easy morning, this one. Woke up at 3:00 determined not to go back to sleep. My mind rushed from one thing to another as if I had forgotten my Ambien. That little wonder-drug usually helps me get past those kinds of nights, but not this time. Not even a football match between Holland and some other country in white shirts was enough to put me to sleep. This in spite of the riveting action of two scores in an hour and a half. Soccer makes me feel like such a dolt. I'm obviously missing something. It is impressive that they always seem to kick the ball just where they want it to go. I couldn't do that.

After I turned off the TV, I went back to bed and let my brains race some more. I went over old jobs. Projects I had worked on years before. A letter to the editor. A political screed I wanted to post on one of my favorite message boards. Pure craziness. The sun finally came up and Mrs P started giving me medicine. I started with the new "swish and swallow" brew that numbs every part of my mouth except the places that hurt. Then I tried to take some pills. I couldn't tell if I had swallowed them or not. Kind of a foolish position to be in, actually. I kept drinking water and swallowing, but the numbing stuff left me sort of senseless back there. I knew something was uncomfortable, but couldn't tell what. As a result, Mrs P decided to crush the remaining pills - one of which is the size of a new-born's foot - and mix them up in some water so they could squirt through my PEG tube. That's how I'll be taking pills for a while. No more swallowing anything solid. Finally we did the little half teaspoon of thrush potion. The giant antibiotic pill should be firing up the thrush on my tongue again any minute.

So that's how the day started. We drove to the vet first, to drop Mo off for an ultra-sound. He has something queer going on in his tummy and the doc wanted to rule out the really bad stuff. Then we went to radiation. I managed to throw up during the short wait for my treatment. I can't even express how glad I was to do that before they bolted the mask on. Funny thing when you throw up around a bunch of radiation patients. Everyone just sort of takes it in stride. We've all "been there/done that." When I returned from the restroom with that pale, cold sweaty look, everyone just smiled and nodded. The lady next to me asked "Y' ok?" "M' ok." I answered, and we all went back to our magazines. You've got to be pretty bad off to get a room full of cancer patients excited.

I keep snapping at Mrs. P, which I hate. She's not much of a fan, either. I get so frustrated sometimes and I take it out on the stupidest things. A missed turn in the car. A glass in the living room. Nothing important. I know that this is part of the disease and all that, but I hate that she bears the brunt of it. When I think about it I can stop myself, but when I'm not thinking it just comes out of me. So unfair to her. As if life wasn't screwing her enough already.

Back home at last. I laid down and she gave me my 10:00 feeding. Sounds like a baby. I have to take a can of Ensure every two hours or else I'm going to start losing weight again. Lost a pound since yesterday morning which is very bad. They will put me in the hospital and start pumping bacon grease into me if I can't keep my weight up. This is the craziest thing. I am now down to the weight I was when I was running 5K races. Maybe I can use that as a head start when I start running again in the fall. For now the walk across campus at the cancer center has me soaked with sweat.

After my can of nutrition, I closed my eyes and Mrs P curled up next to me for a nap. These are the best parts of the day. She held me until I fell asleep, then crept out of bed to do some cleaning up. She is my angel.

I'm hoping the day stays pretty ordinary from here on out. I'm gonna shave my head. Take a shower. Maybe read a little. It's only 82 degrees out. Maybe I'll go sit in the shade later and make some phone calls. To be honest, I'm a little bored with myself today. Can't imagine reading about it is much better than living it. We'll talk again tomorrow.

Peace,
pennsy

#197: No Time To Waste

Wow. Now that's what I call a side effect. I was sitting here peacefully reading about my chemo drugs when BLAM, the pukes hit me like a bus. out of no where. I was surprised by a couple of things. First, the suddenness of their onset. Second, the emptiness of my stomach. Apparently a liquid diet moves mercifully fast through the stomach. And third, when I was finished I felt as if someone had removed all the muscles from my legs. I was weak as a baby, could barely stand. Wow.

A quick trip to bed was followed by chills, blankets, a hat Mum had crocheted for me, and more heaves throughout the night and into the morning. Thank God for Ambien.

This was kind of a reality check for me. I really can't plan for good days or bad days. Just have to take them as they come. After 40 years of acting, I'm finally learning what "here and now" really means. Cancer doesn't give you the luxury of looking ahead. Especially when you're at the coin-toss level of prognosis. Doc says I have a fifty-fifty change of seeing my 55th birthday. We'll 50% is a lot. But there's a 100% chance that I'm alive, awake, and not throwing up right now. I'll have to settle for that.

I've been working at getting to know the other members of the radiation club, a group of four families who happen to be in the waiting room as the same time every morning. There's the lady from West Virginia who is staying here with her husband while she gets treatment. She doesn't have any teeth either. Gum Cancer. Never smoked. Never drank. She is sweet, but very afraid. There's the middle aged couple who have a farm outside of town. She loves her animals in the way that only a farmer can. They take them to vacation bible school and show kids what Jesus was talking about when he spoke of sheep and goats and pigs and such. Then there's the preacher and his wife. He and I are on just about the same schedule as far as treatment and side effects. We are usually within a few hours of each other with good and bad days. He's a very handsome, fit man. I can just picture them going to church. Him in his big black robe. Her in her colorful Sunday dress and enormous church hat. We sit together and talk with one another. "How was your night?" the patients ask one another. "How is he doing?" the spouses offer. It's a tight little fraternity. We all have life and death in common. I guess that's always true, but you're rarely so aware of the empty chair waiting for him to come in and sit down with you.

We all know we're going to die one day. It just doesn't usually matter quite so much. I find myself driven to lift people up around me. I joke and tease and flirt. I kiss my wife. I insist on telling Mum I love her, even if we're not used to that kind of bluntness. There simply isn't time to waste being stupid any more. There isn't time to waste pretending to be cool or aloof or the smartest guy in the room. I'm just another guy who is going to die. Just like you. We don't have time for anything but loving one another.

Well, and the occasional dry heave. That I make time for.

Peace,
pennsy