Treatment # 35 - my last!

Tomorrow marks the 35th radiation treatment to my head and neck. It will also be my last day of receiving chemotherapy. I am exuberant, for sure. But it is not yet time for me to celebrate. As my nurse told me yesterday, starting tomorrow, my body will have to accept and overcome the full brunt of the treatments. They compound together into this final level that will knock my blood counts down, and continue to anger my embattled mouth and throat. That's the bad news.

The good news is that they are calling me a cancer survivor. I am not sure how that can be since I won't have a PET scan for 3 more months while the treatments continue to do their thing. But I'll go with it. The tumor in my neck is nowhere to be found.

So while many of my friends have been warmly reaching out to say "You're all done! Let's celebrate!", I have to inform them that I actually need to get past this pounding of treatments, then work back my strength, which is typically 3 to 4 weeks from now. 

I am so happy to have only 1 more radiation treatment. Each radiation treatment, by itself, doesn't hurt. It's like getting a little bit burned in a spot, then burning that same spot over and over. And the chemo treatment isn't bad while you're being infused. It's the aftermath a few days later that kicks my tail.

So tomorrow I will get through the last of each, and my next mission is to recover and build myself back up. I am happy I've dropped over 40 lbs., and will continue to lose more over the next month. Although, I'd recommend Nutrisystem over this program.

How to beat the lonely medical center kiosk blues

Well I have stumbled through my last 5 treatments, keeping a stiff upper lip to handle something new and painful messing with me at every turn. So while I was waiting outside the coffee kiosk in the medical center where I got my morning dose of radiation, I decided to pretend I was normal and order a vanilla latte frappe (blended latte with ice). I already know that I can't taste it, and that cold stuff doesn't get very far down my throat before it gets denied. But I go ahead and order the frozen latte. I got an hour to kill before the chemo infusion, the sun is shining through last night's rain storm, and I'm kinda wondering what would happen with a little caffeine in my angelic system since it's been over a month without caffeine or alcohol. 

I take a small chunky sip of frozen coffee and vanilla syrup, and... yeah, I can't taste it. Why did I think it would different? I didn't. Just wanted to work with it, pick at it, have something keep me company in the lonely medical center kiosk. I was listening to some old Depeche Mode album, thinking about the 80's, and smiling on the inside.

I took my frozen friend with me up to the chemo center, then tossed him into the trash as I entered the elevator. No food or drink allowed where you're going, bro. Once inside I was shown to a quiet private room in the back (thanks to my killer nurses who take special care of me!), and got plugged in for my next infusion session. I slept through most of the quiet "drip drip drip" sounds of the poison being pushed ever so gently into my system, awakening to the random interruption of someone else's monitor alarms beeping. Time to change the bags.

Ground Hog's day will continue tomorrow morning, and repeat 5 time more before I will be done with this phase. Thanks for listening!

10 days to go...

Well I am so enjoying having a blog to unload my darker stuff along with the uplifting positive stuff that takes over my brain like a rollercoaster. My sister sent me a dry erase board and colored pens a few days ago, so I mapped out my last 3 weeks of treatments and appointments, to give me a visual glance for the light at the end of the treatment tunnel.

While waiting on hold for almost an hour for HealthNet customer service tonight, I started doodling with fat pens and ended up with a 5 legged Beast of which I am riding. Thought I'd share that, too. With 10 treatments left to go, and the lymph node full of cancer now almost imperceivable to the doctor's exam, I am starting my true new year countdown.

I wish I had the illustrative skills of many of my cousins or daughter (Bob, Shelly, Sasha) - coulda done something dark and meaningful, but the symbolism is spot on.

My sister's caring gift put to good work. She has been an amazing angel for me.

New Year's Focus

Having cancer sucks. It grinds you down, day by day. It pummels your psyche - doesn't give a damn about your "good attitude", and is always there to remind you just when you find a small escape. "Hey, the good news is you're going to be fine." Yes, I believe this, but I still have to travel this painful road to get there. The here and now. And now the pain is a relentless companion. My tongue, mouth, gums and throat are exhausted and they don't want to play anymore. They don't want me to talk. Or eat. They want to be left alone. 

Today is New Year's Day - January 1, 2018. I will finish my treatments in January. I think I have 12 more treatment days - finishing on January 17. I've got my calendar now where I check off each remaining day. 3 more sessions of chemo. 6 more infusions of fluids. My eyes are on the prize - getting through the next 2 and a half weeks, then starting to repair my body. 

The New Year is all about new beginnings, and making the upcoming year better than the previous. I don't know what that will entail for me, but I'm pretty sure it's only going up from here.