I think that both Holly & I had pretty lofty expectations when she stopped taking her Xeloda. While I’m sure that we knew, in the back of our heads that it wouldn’t be rosy on day one, I think that we were hoping for some miracle bounce back. That really isn’t the case.
I was trying to explain how chemo works to a friend recently. Fortunately, it was at a New Years Eve party so that made things easy. Let’s say that chemotherapy is the equivalent of the beer that he was drinking. One beer, not so bad. Seven or eight beers, you’ll really be feeling it. 10 or 12 and you’re getting a tiny sliver of what is going on. Not only will you feel effects of the 12 beers when you are worshiping the porcelain god, but you’ll also be feeling it for a good chunk of the next day.
Holly has a chemo hangover. She seems like she is getting a negligibly better each day, but it is still hard for her. She still has, and will probably have for a long time, the side effects of the chemo. Tired, nausea, tingles, neruopathy, nasty stuff. Unlike booze, no amount of Gatorade will flush it from her system. It is one of those things, like so many other things with cancer, that fucking sucks (which has now become our favorite phrase, more on that soon).
Only a month left. It sounds so positive doesn’t it.
But imagine feeling about as sick as you’ve ever felt. Now think about feeling that way for 3 - 4 months. The prospect of having to feel that way for at least another month is pretty unbearable. We see a light at the end of the tunnel, but it is fairly dim. It’s getting bigger, but it is coming at us slowly. It seems like it is coming at us at the same speed, but our perception is off. Like one of those physics shows about light speed.
What the hell, it’s only a month. I imagine that this is what prisoners feel like when they know that they only have a month left to go in their sentence. It’s only a month. A month to avoid getting shanked. Or maybe, what a parent feels like knowing that their child will be home from Iraq in a month. They are still getting shot at regularly, but it is only a month.
A month seems like a really long time to feel really horrible.
On Monday, Holly had her 7th treatment. The day started like the other 6. Wake up, get dressed, get kids dressed, then the question.
“Do you have any questions for Dr. Uyei?”
I couldn’t think of anything. Neither could Holly, really. We had a friend that recently had a pretty significant relapse. So we asked about that. Even if it is distant, it is still a concern.
So here was what we learned about relapses. They happen, but there really doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind them. Just like cancer itself. Colon cancer relapse can hit the colon again. It can hit the liver, the lungs or really any where else. While they don’t come out and say it, it is kind of like when you take your car to get fixed and 2 weeks later there is something completely different wrong with it. I wonder why they don’t call that a relapse, too? Probably marketing. There also isn’t a stage number associated with a relapse. Odd. I wonder why they would rank a first bout but not subsequent bouts?
Is this what happens? It seems like we’ve lumped going to the oncologist in the same bucket as going to the grocery store. “Anything you want from the store, honey?” I guess, sadly, after 7 chemo treatments and over 100 different doctors visits that we have become the experts. We’ve become the old pro. That’s a bummer.
Photo from the Old Pro in Palo Alto by ifindkarma.
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Tags: old_pro, palo_alto, chemo, cancer, experience