This week, I received the last treatment of 6 months of chemotherapy. 18 treatments total. Even my oncology nurses said 18 seemed like "a lot." I knew from my first bout that chemotherapy takes you to the brink of yourself. The side effects accumulate and get worse over time. As each week passed, I felt myself slipping into a fog and haze. Neuropathy set in and made it challenging to type. Exhaustion contributed to low productivity, and I have found myself sleeping for days at a time. I was always a good sleeper and I am thankful for this as I have now slept through lots of rough days, days that run into each other and nights that never end. As my fingernails and skin sloughed off, the bloody noses worsened, and my digestive issues increased, I began to panic that I would not see the last infusion or a version of my former self. I am physically destroyed. Up to my last two treatments, I didn't think I could do one more, or that it could get any worse. About a month ago, I stopped recovering between treatments. I would get a little better by the end of the week, but not much and having to return to more poison, unrecovered, was starting to wear on my psychological wherewithal. Luckily, I miscalculated how many treatments were ahead and my last one came 3 weeks early, last Monday. It gave me renewed resolve to get over that hurdle, but being physically wrecked, the final treatment seemed to be the heaviest burden. ALL of my side effects were exacerbated. I didn't eat for three days, slept through most of them hoping that this too shall pass. When Saturday rolled up, I was worse. Worse didn't make sense and I thought to myself, "Oh no, this is it. This is my best self." My hands were numb, my appetite non-existent, I won't even bother with the plumbing mechanics and my skin is just awful. I soaked in the bath, force-fed broth and protein and limped through Sunday.
It's Monday and I am feeling better. I got in the bath. Soaking in water seems to "lighten the load," where all of my side effects don't seem so acute. As I was sitting there, thinking of what it was going to take to get through this, i realized I was hungry. The numbness in my arms and hands had subsided and I had a little more energy than usual.
I was getting better.
Then, I started to cry and I must have sobbed for 20 minutes, alone in the bathtub. I don't cry much. Crying doesn't get the job done for me and it's too painful to witness for those who work so hard to keep a positive attitude. Seeing the problem, finding the solution, however temporary, has been my focus for the last 6 months. Every time I got better, I geared up for my next treatment, told myself, "Stay focused" only 6 more to go, 5 more to go, 1 more to go....Today, there are no more "to go," and the reality of that hit me like a ton of bricks. I am alive where just months ago, I thought I would be dead by today. Today, I start a new chapter of recovery. There's no more cellular destruction which allows my very atrophied, worn out, destroyed body to fix itself. Bring on the wheatgrass.
Actually, I celebrated my emotional breakdown with a bowl of cereal. Don't judge me anti-carbo peeps. I have eaten an enchilada, a handful of brussel sprouts and a bowl of cereal since Monday which I count as a victory. I know that now is the time to re-evaluate my diet choices once again in a ginormous effort to recover from 6 months of digestive torture, but with malabsorption syndrome (due to the chemo), my pipes are a little off kilter. I don't absorb half of what I eat so vegetables don't have a lot of appeal. Imagine eating nothing but corn and bell peppers for a month. How do you think spinach salad is going to look? Yeah, it's kinda like that only with a laxative. While I see lots of good proteins and healthy fats in my future and possibly a ketogenic diet, for now, It's about fuel for recovery. Ruffage is out.
Suddenly, I'm planning even more. Planning my new morning walks, ketogenic meals, vacations, new tattoos (what?!?) facials, massages, acupuncture.... I'm getting better, which means all of these interventions now have meaning and substance. I no longer have to destroy, weekly, what small gains I make. Now, I can build and create and move forward. Scans will come soon enough and we will have more news of the future, but it will still be vague. What matters is today. My disease is now invisible and perhaps hiding, but the best we can do is watch and wait.....
And make some plans.
