The Bottom

I was so happy to count down those last seconds with close friends that ultimately kicked 2011 to the curb. I am still getting chemotherapy. I still have a long road ahead but it was very therapeutic to put the initial parts of all of this behind me and write 2011 off as the year of surgeries and cancer. 2012 is slated (by me) to be the year of survival. It will be the year I rise out of the burning ashes that breast cancer chucked me into and the year that I transition into survivorhood.
I came out of the 2012 gate swinging. Whatever had me down in December, was overcome by the coming of the new year. I felt pretty great for my first 3 treatments. My energy seemed to return, my blood counts were good with enough white cells to beat infection and a hemoglobin of 11. I was hitting the treadmill and the weights without too much fallout.
Recently, I've been down. The fatigue has kicked in again and I feel like I am wearing a lead suit. I've put on weight and have progressed into full-blown menopause with hot flashes and strange internal temperature regulation issues keeping me up at night. My gastrointestinal system is rebelling. My eyelashes are gone and my eyebrows are trying hard to follow suit. My skin is so dry, I look like a raisin. I have bloody noses daily due to the dry, cold, California air despite the new humidifier. I am struggling. While I am successfully fighting my way through treatment, I have unsuccessfully managed to prevent turning into a cancer patient. I am very different than my former self and from those around me.
The exhaustion is staggering. I wake up feeling pretty good, ready to tackle my day. I get kids ready for school, make myself some breakfast and within an hour, I'm knackered. I try to push through it. All my life, I've tried to push through the unpleasant parts. After 25 years of sitting on freezing chairlifts or 12 years of ER nursing, I've learned that complaining and giving up do not serve me well. I've learned to overcome many obstacles in my life by charging straight at them. I've applied this theory to chemotherapy treatment and it is grossly ineffective. The harder I charge, the worse I get. Interestingly enough, the exhaustion does not manifest itself in physical disability. I don't get so tired that I collapse and sleep. Instead, my brain stops working. I no longer have a filter and my communication becomes short, curt, and abrupt as if using fewer words will save energy. When I am exhausted, I can no longer find words to describe my feelings nor communicate the fact that I'm going downhill fast. The inability to verbalize turns into frustration, which turns into anger which sucks energy that I already do not have. I lose my temper quickly with my kids. Patience flies out the window and all of us half expect my head to start turning 360 degrees. I said something terrible to my husband the other day. It was awful. The words that came out were not the message I wished to convey and they were hurtful and mean. I have no inhibition, no emotional control. I absorb the emotions around me, which with 7 and 9 year olds, tends to be something similar to a really bad acid trip.
I am not sure if it is the menopause or the chemo. The term "chemo brain" has been recognized as a significant side effect, and up to this point, I feel that my brain has not been hugely affected. However, now, my memory is worse than ever. Thoughts and important appointments drift in and out like wind. I've missed two massage appointments, which tells me I'm really losing it because with normal brain activity, I would selectively dump my entire schedule to make that highly coveted massage appointment. I am unable to multi-task. I have lost my ability to focus on the priority of the moment. "Squirrel!" is the new joke among my husband and friends as if I were an untrained puppy. I am easily distracted from the task at hand. The effects on my brain are frightening. I am told it is temporary but I only half believe it. I can barely remember the events of each week and all of my memories are hazy. I realize that I am hitting rock bottom. My physical and mental abilities are significantly affected and the person I have become is not the person I set out to be.
With two more treatments left, I know I'm going to make it. I have managed to dodge the evil germ and avoid infection which was my biggest fear surrounding my treatment. My heart is holding up great which was another concern given the cardiotoxicity of the medications. I meet my radiation oncologist tomorrow and start gearing up for 5 weeks of daily radiation. I'm told radiation is far easier than chemo, and I am hoping that the side effects of my chemo will subside. Sadly, because of the daily radiation treatments and because I am getting those treatments in San Francisco, I will be leaving home and staying in San Francisco 5 days a week. New challenges are on the horizon.
Because I know I will cross the chemo finish line in two weeks, I have allowed myself to go down. I run the gamut of emotions but I am not depressed. I am simply recognizing that this is the bottom. This is one of the darkest and scariest places I've ever had to go. I am tired and each day is difficult. My thoughts are random and unorganized and I am definitely the weak one of the herd. If this were the Serengeti, I'd be picked off in a heartbeat.
The importance of this is that I would prefer not to revisit this place. It means that for the rest of my life, I will compare this place to other dark places and this one will always win. I am letting it ruminate. I need to appreciate its value so that when times are good, I can revel in them. Soon, I will be digging myself out of this hole which will mean huge lifestyle changes with regards to diet and stress. My new, post chemo life is about to begin, and I don't ever want to forget what these last days of chemo are trying to teach me.
Every day, I fight to maintain normalcy. Whether it's a workout, making my own lunch or testing for my next belt at MMA, I fight the deterioration everyday by doing what I can. I can't stop the side effects, but I can slow them down. Hopefully, I can slow them down enough so that by the end of my last treatment, there is still a hint of me left. I need just a little of me to rebuild the new me, but I fear that these last two weeks will take the most of me.