The Week After a Three-week Rest

I had gotten too used to not being on chemo.  I didn't appreciate that time enough.  

After finding an infection around my colon at my last regularly-scheduled appointment, Dr. Cole gave me a rest from those hated chemo pills for three weeks, to allow the infection a better chance of healing and to help my bloodwork numbers get as close to normal as possible. 

Those three weeks were happier times.  I had energy.  I was able to make and reach goals, both personally and for my family.  I cleaned the garage. I organized my kitchen.  I worked on clearing clutter from multiple places in my home and tech.   I took naps during the day.  I tried new recipes and had patience to help my son (the one with dyslexia)  to study his spelling words and finish all his other homework.  I felt like a person my own age, instead of one with an additional 40 years of aches and pains and bad eye sight and actually needing my disabled driving pass.  (Not just milking it as one of the few perks of this disease.). 

The previous weeks were so good that they hurt deeply when they ended, too abruptly for my liking.  As soon as those 10 pills reentered my body on the first day back on the chemo horse, I remembered all of the previous anxieties about them.  My skin began to peel again.  My lips began to dry out, nearly beyond what any balm could prevent.  The diarrhea and loose stools came flooding back.  Leg pain and back pain and gut pain and bone pain in my hips became more pronounced and noticeable. A new, sharp and biting pain appeared, but randomly attacking in random areas.   A bit of neuropathy showed up in my fingertips, and my brain seemed less able to function to the highest capacity. I felt like all the *wonders* of 2020 were right back where they were not wanted.  Add to all of that, the worst part of all.  

I got in a fender-bender after making a drug pickup in the Walgreens parking lot. 

This one event plunged me down, nearly into the depths of despair. I began dwelling on all of my mistakes and disabilities and weakness.  I couldn't stop blaming myself for all the bad days and the costs of repairs and the extra fees (or possible drop) from insurance and my body's inability to hold down a job with which to help cover costs.  

All of the times that I legitimately have needed to ask for help and was too sure of myself to actually ask for it made me feel as if I was ready to give up because now I seem to need TOO MUCH help and am beginning to be a burden.  I was angry at myself for this single second of my life and its ripple-effect, not only financially, but emotionally.  This is not an accident that can be fixed with an "I'm sorry." It will cost thousands and waste countless hours of my already stunted time.  I was feeling stupid and worthless and aggravated over a true accident that I just wanted to put behind me, but couldn't on my own.  I realized how much I hate this disease and all the ways it can try to destroy a person , even one who is fighting to overcome.  

Nurses and doctors alike ask me this question at each appointment: "Have you had any feelings of depression or thoughts of suicide since your last appointment?"  

I truly answer NO each time.  

After this last few weeks and all the feelings of anxiety and rage and pity for myself, I might have to answer YES next time.  I do not actually think of ending my life, but with cancer there are thoughts that go right around the issue.

 I ask myself: "Would it be better if I could just quit chemo and be done with it all?" "I cost this family thousands upon thousands of dollars each year in medical/insurance deductibles and out-of-pocket fees, and with what return?"  A mom who barely functions and completes only a portion of what your average stay-at-home mom should.  "If I just stop taking poison and see what happens and how long it will take, at least I would be saving money."

There are days when I want to just stay in bed, which requires my husband to be home early from work to pick up our boys from school and be the one to shuttle them all to their various practices or performances.  They then all return home to find NO meal and an absent mother-figure, who is still in bed and will continue to be the next morning when they are ready to get to school.  Would it not be easier to understand that these things CANNOT be done when I am ACTUALLY not there, rather than wonder why this woman of only 41years old does not get out of bed to do the things a non-working mom should be able to accomplish?  

Fighting cancer is hard.  

It is hard to continue to live when your body is receiving infusions of small doses of poison and you are constantly in pain or weakened and fatigued.  It is hard to hear about a cancer diagnosis, then beat that cancer, then hear another diagnosis, and another, and another, and then just wait around to discover where this beast will pop up next.  The physical is hard, the emotional is hard, the financial burdens are hard, AND the ups and downs of daily life are hard. Somedays I wonder why I do it and why (and HOW) am I still here and ABLE to do it.  It is hard feeling less than other, healthy moms and getting to the point where many of the things I used to love and enjoy bring much less joy than just staying in bed does.  

Then, I realize that I don't need to know all of the answers.  Plus, there is no way for me to discover all the reasons all this is happening to me (and us.). The time spent worrying about how much time (or how little time) and getting down about how long all the formerly simple things now take hours or days to cross off the list, just waste time from my overall total.  

 After several days of allowing myself to be down and able to feel the sadness, I realized the sum total of these wallowing days is minuscule, compared with my life's little joys.  I get a sweet tuck-in from my youngest son, who wasn't even aware that I was just resting my eyes and that I was aware of his simple act of kindness. Another son lovingly wakes me up in the mornings and always checks on the condition in which I find myself each day.  My oldest has begun to see beyond just his own needs and will often see from my aura what I am needing.  I feel all the love and care and selfless service and prayers from life long friends or short time acquaintances.  I am reminded of people I have known in many places I've lived.  A friend from 13 years ago made it possible to meet up with me to share some of our personal connections and help me remember the love and connections and how so many fellow humans always re-member me and ask how I'm doing.  "It's because of who you are, Mel, and how you treat people." she explained.  

And once I let these grateful thoughts and joyful memories flood in, I start to tear off the funk and move back. up our of the despair.  And that process is not an instant or easy one.  Parts of it can change instantly, but some deep scars take what feel like forever to heal.    

I don't know all of the answers.  I don't know all of the why's. 

I do know that I am known and loved-on earth and from above.  I know that I can truly keep practicing how to dance and find joy, even when this storm probably will only end at the end of my life.  I know that I just need to get back up from bad days and take one day at a time, even when most of that one day is spent in bed or soaking in a warm tub.  

There ARE days when all is not right in the world, and particularly in MY little piece of it.  But, there is always light to be found in the darkness.  I may not be fit to drive my big, MOM-mobile anymore, thanks to cancer and chemo and simply being a terrible driver.  I might have to rely on others and give up some of my own daily or weekly joys of wandering around certain stores for crafting or gifting or dining or decorating ideas.  It's difficult to realize that chunks of my former life seem to be winding  down so soon. 

Then I remember....I LOVE taking baths.  I LOVE resting in my comfortable bed and catching up on favorite (and new) shows.  And, most importantly of all.......I never liked to drive, anyway.  So, chin up and find more of those happy thoughts, even during some of the saddest of all the sad things that can be.  It can always be worse, but I'm hoping that it won't have to be.  

 

Three Weeks Off the Poison

 It's amazing what three weeks with no chemo will do to boost spirits! 

After discovering an infection around my colon at my last appointment, Dr. Cole thought it would be best if I just focused on fighting that mess with antibiotics and rest and healthy lifestyle choices .  I did really well at following my doctor's advice on resting and fighting that infection, but could have been more diligent with the healthy stuff.  I definitely needed to drink less Dr. Pepper and more water, snack less,  and be more active.  Should-a, would-a, could-a, though.  Am I right?  I did experience some negative consequences, though, some that are still biting me in the butt, three weeks later.  

Partly from some less-than-stellar choices and partly from an upset in the former balance of drugs in my system, I paid for that lack of wisdom in the end.  I forgot to  counterbalance the previously *normal* balance of drugs, with all chemo being removed from one side of the scale.  Some chemo (and other medication I take to stay upright and alive) can cause diarrhea + some drugs cause me constipation. Since I was only had one side of the scale for three weeks, a change that actually took me to the point of NO balance, I experienced several days of serious constipation.  

With all the ups and downs I've taken over the years, my body has done a great job of keeping my bowels *normal* by evening-out the scales, for the most part.  This month, however, one side of this fragile balance was erased from existence. That change upset the delicate nature of what my body had been doing on its own. I had not given that process enough respect.    

This is probably TMI, but having dealt with hemorrhoids from at least one of my pregnancies and then days of aggravating that area without success makes thinking about anything else just as aggravating as the basic experience.  When I need to poop, but can't poop without pain and struggle, I just want to go back to bed or sit in the tub all day.  Those options were not completely plausible, but I could not think about anything else.  I even dreamed about a smooth poop experience. Reality was anything but.  

 In the past, my pain tolerance has been stellar.  My mastectomy was the first major part of this cancer journey that humbled me and brought me back down to realizing my fragility and that pain can be a good reminder to pay attention to the body's signs of warning and to stop bragging that I didn't feel much pain most of the time.  I am not immune to pain. Especially from the events of the last few days.  That pain had been anything butt* fun or manageable.  Something had to give.  It was time to get out of bed. (or the bath.)  

We made plans for some fun things while I was off the poison.  I have also been so grateful for many of those days full of fall weather, for feeling strong enough to work on a few major home/garage cleaning and organizing projects, to create some fun holiday crafts and decor for my own home and for a friend's, to be allowed to eat lunch with my elementary kids at school again, to see my oldest son's 1st band concert of 2020, to be able to get out and vote in the greatest country in the world, to get back to in-person (not just virtual) church, to take me out to the ball game and watch our baseball team ALMOST make it to the World Series, to have the kids back in school and staying healthy, and for Stephen's job allowing him to feel, overall, less stressed than before.  I'm also so grateful for the outpouring of  love and support from family and friends.  

As always, I have high hopes.  I am continuing to BTHO cancer.  I refuse to die during a pandemic.  I do not want my fight to end with no fanfare and celebration for all of those who have made the fight worth fighting.  

And, for the first time in my life, I have had to get prescription  glasses!  I'm in my forties and need them for driving.  I never thought I would live this long to need this change in life, so it is a small testament to God's miracles in my survival, allowing me to live long enough to require glasses.  Small and simple things bring about great examples of tender mercies, if you have eyes willing to see!  (I'm hoping this new spectacles bring me closer to that truth!)