I'm at the halfway point in chemotherapy – six sessions. My tumors have shrunk, but not by half. My oncologist tells me the shrinking often accelerates later in the chemo.
I usually go in for treatment every other week, but I took two weeks off this time because I needed to see another doctor to sort out some insurance issues.
I really enjoyed having an extra chemo-free week. Drank a lot of milk shakes, ate a lot of ice cream. Sensitivity to cold returns Monday, so I'm enjoying it while I can.
Fatigue is still a problem. I wore myself out Wednesday carrying a medium-sized bag of dog food into the house, and had to lie down and rest. I can't even think about picking up the big food bags anymore.
This may all return to normal when I'm done with the chemo, which I guess will be in September.
Still, it's kind of nice to have a legitimate medical reason for being a slacker.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Saturday, June 09, 2012
Back to the Very Dark Room
I feel like I want to talk a little more about fatigue. It's really wearing me down. I took a shower this evening, for reasons that will be evident after you've read the post preceding this one. When I was done, my hands and my knees were trembling so badly I thought I was going to have to just lie down on the bathroom floor to recuperate. It doesn't take much to tire me.
I've spent 50 of the last 72 hours in bed. I usually feel mentally alert, but my body simply doesn't want to do the things that I want it to do. My body feels like a 220-pound deadweight that my brain has to carry around, and try to cajole into even modest action.
A few years ago, I put blackout curtains on my bedroom windows and turned that room into what I called the Very Dark Room. I spent the whole summer in there, in quiet solitude, with nothing but the music of Tibetan singing bowls in my ears. My friends scarcely saw me that summer. I just sat there and recharged my batteries, week after week. It felt calm, safe, peaceful and steady. I feel that I'm ready to do that again. I need it more now than I did then.
I've spent 50 of the last 72 hours in bed. I usually feel mentally alert, but my body simply doesn't want to do the things that I want it to do. My body feels like a 220-pound deadweight that my brain has to carry around, and try to cajole into even modest action.
A few years ago, I put blackout curtains on my bedroom windows and turned that room into what I called the Very Dark Room. I spent the whole summer in there, in quiet solitude, with nothing but the music of Tibetan singing bowls in my ears. My friends scarcely saw me that summer. I just sat there and recharged my batteries, week after week. It felt calm, safe, peaceful and steady. I feel that I'm ready to do that again. I need it more now than I did then.
Catastrophic failure
So, tonight I had my first catastrophic colostomy bag failure. Fortunately I was at home at the time, and I was able to get myself, my clothes and the bag into the bathtub with no collateral damage.
I knew this would happen eventually, of course, so I wasn't totally unprepared.
I knew this would happen eventually, of course, so I wasn't totally unprepared.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
14 Years
I heard a story this week about a friend of a friend. She was diagnosed with colon cancer, same as me. She was stage IV, same as me. She had a colostomy, same as me.
And I assume that, same as me, the doctors gave her about 18 months to live. But 14 years later, she's still with us.
That's the kind of story I like to hear.
And I assume that, same as me, the doctors gave her about 18 months to live. But 14 years later, she's still with us.
That's the kind of story I like to hear.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Bag farts
Note: this post will cross many readers' TMI threshold. Continue reading at your own risk.
As I've mentioned previously, my cancer treatment included a colostomy. That's the procedure where they remove part of your colon, then attach what's left to a hole they've opened in the wall of your abdomen, because what's left isn't long enough to reach your ass. You eliminate waste through this hole, or stoma, into a bag attached to your skin with adhesive. The process goes 24/7; you no longer have any control over when you shit.
But even more curious is that after the procedure, you still fart.
I am more intimately acquainted with my farting now than I ever was before the surgery. I know that by volume, I fart far more than I shit. When I fart, my colostomy bag suddenly expands like a puffer fish.
When I was in the hospital recovering from my surgery, the nurses showed me how to 'burp' my bag. But it's something you definitely want to do in a well-ventilated space.
Like a national park, maybe.
Because for some reason, bag farts smell worse than normal free range farts. 'Way worse. I mean a couple of orders of magnitude worse.
Even after my chemo is done, I will still be bagging it. That will be for the rest of my life. Sometimes these are reversible, but not in my case. Too much was cut out.
If I was still thirty years old, I'd be really distraught about this, I think. But at this stage in my life, it's not as big a deal.
As I've mentioned previously, my cancer treatment included a colostomy. That's the procedure where they remove part of your colon, then attach what's left to a hole they've opened in the wall of your abdomen, because what's left isn't long enough to reach your ass. You eliminate waste through this hole, or stoma, into a bag attached to your skin with adhesive. The process goes 24/7; you no longer have any control over when you shit.
But even more curious is that after the procedure, you still fart.
I am more intimately acquainted with my farting now than I ever was before the surgery. I know that by volume, I fart far more than I shit. When I fart, my colostomy bag suddenly expands like a puffer fish.
When I was in the hospital recovering from my surgery, the nurses showed me how to 'burp' my bag. But it's something you definitely want to do in a well-ventilated space.
Like a national park, maybe.
Because for some reason, bag farts smell worse than normal free range farts. 'Way worse. I mean a couple of orders of magnitude worse.
Even after my chemo is done, I will still be bagging it. That will be for the rest of my life. Sometimes these are reversible, but not in my case. Too much was cut out.
If I was still thirty years old, I'd be really distraught about this, I think. But at this stage in my life, it's not as big a deal.
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Clearing the cobwebs
I decided to go for a longish drive yesterday – longish, at least, by my standards. Once around the lake, then out into the far northwest corner of the city, then back home again. It was cloudy and 64. I didn't need my sunglasses, and I could open the sunroof glass and let some fresh air in.
Although I generally don't wander far from the house in my errands, I do occasionally like to go for a thirty- or forty-mile meandering drive with no destination in mind. It gives me a chance to sweep the cobwebs out of my brain.
And when there are only three or four days every two weeks in which I feel like doing something other than sleeping and barfing, it seems wise to make use of them somehow.
It was also one of those occasions that I felt would have been improved by having a significant other with which to share it. But I've never known a woman who liked to just go on long drives with no other purpose than to drive. My wife would tolerate them, but that was as far as it went.
With other women, it was always, “Let's go to the mall,” or, “Can we run one or two or a half dozen errands while we're out?” or, “Let's go get mimosas,” or, “Let's go meet this other guy I like so I can try to provoke you two to fight over me,” or, when I still drove the minivan all the time, “I can't be seen in that.”
I've loved all the fantasy relationships I never actually had. The real ones, well, not so much.
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| Let's roll. |
And when there are only three or four days every two weeks in which I feel like doing something other than sleeping and barfing, it seems wise to make use of them somehow.
It was also one of those occasions that I felt would have been improved by having a significant other with which to share it. But I've never known a woman who liked to just go on long drives with no other purpose than to drive. My wife would tolerate them, but that was as far as it went.
With other women, it was always, “Let's go to the mall,” or, “Can we run one or two or a half dozen errands while we're out?” or, “Let's go get mimosas,” or, “Let's go meet this other guy I like so I can try to provoke you two to fight over me,” or, when I still drove the minivan all the time, “I can't be seen in that.”
I've loved all the fantasy relationships I never actually had. The real ones, well, not so much.
Friday, June 01, 2012
No taste at all
Another chemo note: I had been warned going into this that food might acquire a metallic taste. But that didn't happen.
What did happen is that food started to have no taste at all. A lot of my meals taste like cardboard and cotton ball sandwiches with a side order of foam packing peanuts.
The things that seem most edible to me are fresh fruit, especially watermelon, plums and citrus; and, oddly enough, Wendy's chili.
A doctor friend says tastebuds have a high cellular turnover rate and thus are greatly affected by chemo.
What did happen is that food started to have no taste at all. A lot of my meals taste like cardboard and cotton ball sandwiches with a side order of foam packing peanuts.
The things that seem most edible to me are fresh fruit, especially watermelon, plums and citrus; and, oddly enough, Wendy's chili.
A doctor friend says tastebuds have a high cellular turnover rate and thus are greatly affected by chemo.
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