I now know that I am going to crawl on my hands, knees, and empty belly over the finish line, not unlike Julie Moss at the Ironman in 1982, but without the poop. (Google her story if you don’t know what I’m talking about. She’s bad ass. Excuse the pun.) Radiation is kicking. My. Ass. The worst part is that I expected it to be relatively easy, except for some fatigue, which I was sure I could manage with a short run. The joke’s on me. You know that feeling when you’re having a bad dream, but you know you’re dreaming, so you try to will yourself to wake up? Your eyelids are heavy and your arms feels like they weigh 100 pounds each? That’s the fatigue. I even skipped my pre-chemo Computrainer workout this morning. It took all the strength I had to call and cancel. Yesterday, I rode 9 miles on the Computrainer in an hour and 10 minutes. (For reference, I should have ridden more than twice that.) I got nothing.
Two posts ago, I said that I procrastinate going to bed because somehow, overnight, the radiation beams gather themselves together to give me one big sucker punch in the esophagus. I almost always wake up feeling worse than I did when I finally put down the iPad solitaire game. (Does anyone really win more than they lose with that stupid thing?) This morning, there was a raging headache, stiffness, the hairball of knives and fire already spinning, and, horror of horrors: Nausea. I thought for sure I had the flu.
It was my last chemo day, although I was fairly sure I’d get kicked out again. Eating was out of the question, so I made a big glass of (what else?) chocolate milk. Halfway through the glass, drinking was taking my breath away. I mean, it hurts going down, then I get spasms of increasing stabbiness (?) for the next 20 minutes. What the???????? I had to resort to that Lidocaine mixture, even though the thought of Lidocaine-infused chocolate milk turned my stomach even worse. I still couldn’t finish one glass of chocolate milk. And an hour later at the hospital, I gave that glass of chocolate milk back. I did discover, however, that the Lidocaine mixture numbs the esphpagus, throat and mouth on the way back up, too. Dr. Kokeny and Tony (nurse I get the biggest kick out of because he’s so easy to make laugh. I know I dangled a participle. The grammar-correct sentence makes me sound like a tool) did not know that.
I didn’t get kicked out of Poison Control today, as you can see. Now I’m finished with that part of treatment, and I don’t have to add the chemo session I missed on the end. Here’s another irony coming out of this treatment regimen: The once dreaded chemo day makes the radiation days feel better. I get a mega-dose of steroids before chemo, and that makes swallowing easier. See why cancer makes you crazy? (BTW, I saw Terry today who told me in person not to shave my hair off. I have a skinnier pony tail, and the hair is still falling out, but I don’t see more scalp. Mohawk on hold.)
So now, no more dates with Poison Control, but I’ll still visit the chemo room every other day to get an IV of saline to fight dehydration. I am also breaking down and filling prescriptions for Codeine and Ativan (to fight nausea and induce sleep). There we go, side effect drugs for the side effects. And guess what: Both those drugs cause constipation, so I very well may have to add a third layer of drugs to treat the side effects of the side effects of the radiation. Crazy. In reality, however, as I’m not eating, I probably wouldn’t even notice any gastro problems.
My oncology team says that I “shouldn’t” feel any worse than I do now, but that this could be my reality til the end of radiation and a week to ten days after that. That’s not awesome. All I wanted today after six hours at Huntsman was a chocolate shake. It went down my esophagus like a river of dairy and fire and mad cats. Again, I am OUTRAGED. I’m also getting too skinny. 7 pounds down, and I don’t see how I can change that trajectory for a while. I haven’t been this weight since college and I can’t imagine it’s a good look. And my lovely low resting heart rate that usually is in the mid 50’s is now standing tough at 98. Resting. I have friends that train close to that number. No wonder I’m sooooooo tired.
Years ago, I had a really smart friend tell me that no matter how bad a day is, it’s rarely 100% bad. You can break it down to segments of hours if you have to, to salvage something good from the day. And right now, I’m sitting in front of a fire, with Lucy beside me, Emmitt Smith behind me, and a bowl of amazing pumpkin soup that my friend, Julie, made for me on the counter. I’ll have to eat it tepid, which isn’t ideal, but it will power me through the night and into tomorrow. Of course, my night may bleed right into tomorrow. You know what happens when I go to sleep. 6 more treatments to go. Fighting like hell.
You are inspirational! Doubt that most people myself included could reach out when feeling miserable. I haven’t been thru it though might be someday and can only hope to have the strength that u have shown. Good job! And may you continue to always have someone wonderful making you soup! I’m sure you would do the same! 🙂 OOooo! Don’t expect you to write back and should let you know anyway I really need to learn to pay attention to my email! lol!!!
AATH The Assoc. for Applied & Therapeutic Humor has Cancer Centers of America as one of
their major sponsors. Some of our members are fighting your battle. Check out the website and look for Christine Clifford who made her cancer a speaking career, she wrote, “Bad Hair Day? How About a No Hair Day?” She’s still battling, very skinny but up there on stage for short bursts of healing laughter when there isn’t one damn thing to laugh about. Except when her son answered the door, accepted yet another delivery of flowers, and hollered upstairs (where she was ‘yodeling’ as she calls vomiting) “Hey mom, more flowers for your breast.” Humor helps and distracts. Get some funny movies. If it hurts too much to laugh, just watch the soppy uplifting ones. We love you Wendy, you have an army of friends pulling for you.
hugs, from the Laughing Lyon
Hang in there, Wendy! I am also going through radiation for breast cancer (Stage 1, so no chemo) right now–leaving to have treatment 8 in a few minutes. I haven’t experienced side effects yet and in fact went to the gym and had a great workout last night, but who knows how long I’ll be able to do that. I know it’s hard, but you can do it. Take care of yourself and know that this is a temporary setback, albeit a yucky one. You’ll be back to pedaling eighteen miles an hour and having a resting heart rate in the 50s before you know it.
I shed a tear reading your post. I am a Pastor and prayed for you to have continued strength and courage each day and i prayed for healing also. Thank you for being a fighter. Your trial gives me hope and puts my puny problems into perspective. Thank you. John 3:16