Trick or Treat?

Oh woe is me, woe is me.  Yes, I’m whining, indeed I am.  Being that yesterday was Halloween which is so apropos given the fact I have to return to The Chair on Halloween day, and that scary place in oncology at Virginia Mason for my first infusion since June 16, I should get a freakin' gold star for showing up in costume of sorts. I made a valiant effort to start off the morning upbeat by wearing my favorite pink bunny socks under my black jeans, and my pretty pink princess mask. I sure did. And I've never dressed up on Halloween before for public consumption.  Never!  I actually had the unmitigated gall to wear this get up on the bus to Seattle at 6:00 a.m. along with carrying a large orange plastic pumpkin with trick or treat spelled out on the side in large black letters.  It was filled to the brim with all the “good” candies, chocolat!  The nurses were tickled when I laid it on the counter for whoever needed a fix throughout the day.  I can imagine when working in an oncology unit having a fix of chocolate from time to time can only make the day better.

As the infusion did its thing I fought nausea, so they gave me more pills, I got stomach cramps so they gave me another pill and then I was trying to gently fuss at my nurse about something and my words came out thick and garbled like someone having a stroke.  I said, “I can’t talk wight.”  The nice nurse.  “Are you sure?”  Really?  “Well I doe I didn’t sound wike this when I came in.”  I'm getting kind of irritated now.  She asked if my tongue was swollen.  I said doe.  She asked if my lips were tingling.  I said uh…doe.  She surmised that it may be the pill they gave me for cramping which sometimes causes the back of the throat to become numb.  The more I talked the worse it got.  She said, “Oh yes, I can hear the change in your voice now.”  Again really?  Now you can tell?  As I mentioned earlier I’m a moody gal and usually have to work at being nice.  Yesterday was one of those days.  I hope the staff couldn't tell, they are always kind and very nice to me.  Immediately the doctor was called, and he came in all smiles and shook my hand then asked me to pronounce Episcopalian Church or something to that effect.  I like Dr. Picozzi.  Without trying he can always find a way to make my lips flip from a frown into a smile.  Of course the words came out all kinds of ridiculous, not to mention I don’t recall being able to pronounce it properly even without meds.  But I did manage a smile which ruled out a stroke.  He prescribed some Benadryl and I crashed when I got home but when I woke up at around 9:30 p.m. my speaking abilities were much improved.

They told me this therapy was no joke and believe me I am not laughing.  As I’ve mentioned in previous post this ass-kicking therapy usually includes 5 days of radiation in addition to the three chemo drugs dumped into my body, but because cancer has spread to my liver radiation is no longer an option for me.  After my infusion, and realizing how really difficult it is from the last time, I didn't know whether to be grateful that I don't have to do the radiation part too or worried because I can’t do the radiation part.  Although of course I don’t want any further metastasis of my liver to other major organs, I don’t want the pancreatic cancer to come back either.  But this is the only option available to me now and truly, I am grateful. I will be reporting for therapy on a 1 week on, 1 week off schedule.  I was fitted with a fanny pack which contains the 5FU injected every hour into my port for two days and then I have to get back to the hospital this Saturday to have it detached from my body.  This process will be repeated until January and then another CT scan.  Fun times.

While my infusion was ongoing, in comes the Palliative treatment people.  These folks always scare me a bit because I know they are cousins to the hospice folks that show up at the end of life.  The major difference is that Palliative care will usually pay a visit during any phase of illness, ergo the reason behind their impromptu visit today (is ergo even still a word?).  They manage pain, help you with getting together necessary paperwork like living wills, Power of Attorneys and a heap of other things we need but don't like to talk about.  To get an idea of where I'm at emotionally in the  cancer journey, they dug a bit into the personal.  They asked me my feelings on death and dying.  I said I wasn't keen on the idea just yet, but when my time comes, I just didn't want it to hurt.  I worry about my children losing their mother, even as grown folks it will hurt them. We talked about my dad, and my part in assisting him with his care.  I grabbed some tissue.  We talked about my mom, and my part in assisting with her care (more tissues), and we talked about my brother...and I cried...then cried some more.   I'm a talker and do not need a whole lot of encouragement to talk about myself or loved ones no longer with us in the physical sense, but it's a fresh break in my heart every time.  It's so painful.  Still. Always.  

When I left Virginia Mason on the spookiest day of the year my bag of goodies was replaced with scripts for potassium, cause pre-blood work indicated my levels were low, nausea pills, anxiety pills -- with instructions to pick up some Imodium for diarrhea. Yummy.  Apparently, all of the chemo drugs I'm on can cause the runs. 

So there you have it.  This is my story and I'm sticking to it.  I hope that all of you going through your own personal journeys had some peace today, with no pain or discomfort, and perhaps found moments to laugh at something silly, or cry for a moment if it's what's needed.  We are entitled. Keep fighting, it's worth the win!



“To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.”
― Criss Jami