Wishing on a Blue Star (13 page)

Her response: “Come see me at 11:00am.”

Sigh. I was afraid of that. :)

I watched, fascinated, as she laid out her tools with the air of long practice. She chatted amiably about plans for her future, barely glancing at me as she tore open packages and pads, scissors and swabs, and laid them out on her tray.

“This will be uncomfortable,” she said as she brandished a long handled cotton tipped swab. Her eyes met mine, and I’m sure I saw something like regret on her face.

I shrugged and told her not to worry about it as I scrambled to get my video recording phone into position. Laid back as I was, I could see neither her work, nor the screen, and I hoped my estimated angle was correct.

She nodded and turned to her task.

I couldn’t help wonder what she was thinking as she poked and prodded, seemingly indifferent to the fact that her canvas was a living body, full of nerves and sensitive places that simply don’t respond well to the intrusion of foreign objects.

Obviously she cared, else she wouldn’t have made her comment, and yet, she worked with the casual precision of a master painter, well versed in the art of wielding a brush. Such precision either comes from long practice, or from simply divorcing herself from the reality of the situation. Yet neither seemed to apply to this pleasant lady. She was not old, nor did she present herself as brusque or uncaring.

As I looked down at myself, laid out like meat on a slab and still modest to the world, it occurred to me there must be a third option. Something I had not considered until now: Resolve.

Her blue gloved hands were deft and sure, and her voice as she described her suspicion was steady and crisp.

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” she said and held up the wooden handle of the swab, indicating the depth of her discovery with a thumb placed almost two inches from the opposite end. “You’ve got another pocket.”

In layman’s terms, for I surely cannot remember the technicalities, she described a ‘hole beneath the hole’ where the previous infection, now thankfully gone, had left a kind of chamber that filled with fluid and needed to be drained.

Again.

I should have known, should have expected it. Hadn’t I described just such a thing during the first go-around, and hadn’t I removed a chunk of ‘stuff’ from that very hole? Knowing that the healing process must occur from the bottom up, I should have realized that the cavity was not simply ‘the space between muscle and skin’ as I originally thought, and should have packed deeper.

My bad, but then again, I’m not a trauma surgeon. There are some things I do not know after all. :)

I acknowledged her explanation and she looked at me again, closely.

“I have to say, I am surprised by how stable you are. Most people wouldn’t be able to deal with this sort of thing very well.”

“What sort of thing?” I asked.

She shrugged. “You know, the pain, the packing. Stuff like that.”

I smiled and nodded. “Oh. I have a high tolerance. That’s all.”

True enough, but in light of my revelation watching her work, it came to me that there was perhaps another reason as well: Resolve.

Simply put, personal resolve makes us do what needs to be done, even when the work isn’t enjoyable. Resolve carries us to destinations despite the hazardous travel conditions, and it allows us to be strong when we’d much rather run crying from the situation.

Her resolve to do the work, despite the pain she knew she would cause. My resolve to accept the circumstances as fact and deal with them.

Our resolve to reach our goals, regardless of the stumbling blocks life often puts in our path as we make and keep a place for ourselves in this wide world. Resolve guarantees we arrive, wiser if not safer, and cements our position in the great karmic equation.

And personally, I have no intention of coming back as an earthworm. :)

Thank you Angila, for your commitment and for your resolve. I wish you the best of luck on your new adventure, and I’m confident you’ll reach your chosen destinations easily. No resolve needed. :)

Folks, I kid you not. I have the very best doctors in the world!

Patric

Saturday, December 12, 2009

The Derivation of Comfort

Content Advisory:

The following post will likely contain copious quantities of whining. Feel free to take a pass and move on. The gods know I would, if I could. :)

I often have long, sometimes heated discussions with my doctor. With the exception of once each month, these discussions take place solely in my head.

Perhaps not so surprisingly, I often get the same answers from ‘Doc’, my imaginary oncologist, that I get from ‘John,’ the real thing. After all, ‘I don’t know.’ is fairly universal. :)

(And before I go any further, let me remind new people that John’s ability to say ‘I don’t know’ is what endears me to the man. I value his honesty and candor above all things.)

Still.... I wouldn’t mind in the least if he, someone, or something else (A Magic 8 Ball?) did have all the answers because I am more than tired of trying to find them myself.

To recap before we delve deeper into what is sure to be the snivel-fest of 2009, I am still packing the hole in my leg twice a day (when I dont forget) and I am still hovering on the evolutionary scale between Neanderthal and Homosapien.

Put another way, I’ve lifted my knuckles off the ground, but I still don’t feel qualified to be communicative to the rest of the world. Grunts and monosyllabic responses simply don’t count. :)

Also, as I have alluded to previously, alluded or outright shouted, this cycle has been the worst so far, and I spend a good deal of time playing the “Russian Roulette of Percocet” game. We’ll get to that later, I suppose.

Anyway.... I woke up last night from yet another unexpected nap with a bloody nose. I can count on one hand and still have room to name a few planets how often I’ve had one of those. Once the crimson cataract was stemmed, off I went to Google the reason why. (It should be noted here that Google is the functional equivalent of the Magic 8 Ball, with marginally more accurate responses.)

Okay...

Fact: I am at nadir, the point in time during a cycle when the chemicals are at their most active in my system.

Fact: You need platelets to coagulate blood, and despite the Neulasta booster, designed to ramp up blood cell production, platelets are likely at their lowest point during nadir.

Fact: I’ve been known to wake up with a finger up my nose. (Have I mentioned lately I have no modesty left? Well, dignity is also apparently in short supply.) :)

Conclusion: My bloody nose is the result of the weakened condition of the skin wall being damaged in some manner, and the resulting flow more prevalent because of the thinner blood.

Okay, I can work with that. My source of ‘comfort’ has ever been understanding why this or that happens, as opposed the hand holding and counseling sessions the rest of humanity seems to find so helpful. Moving on...

This morning, I woke up with the unlovely feeling of having chewed my way through the week old carcass of a buffalo that died of distemper. (What a visual, huh? I guess I’m still a writer after all.) :)

I’d already Googled that one. There is a marked correlation between the increase of plaque in the mouth and chemotherapy. Supposition is the decreased ability for the body to fight bacteria.

As I stood at the sink, looking at a face that resembles a guy twice my age, and brushing away the imaginary remnants of buffalo guts, a million questions ran through my head, all of which began with a single word; “Why?”

In a long ago age, I used to adore that word, or more precisely, I used to adore answering that word. I had discovered ages ago, when my four year old lease on the question had expired, (“Why is the sky blue, Mommy?” always seems to be the deal breaker.) that it would be up to me to find my own answers and I clove to the task with a vengeance.

Forty years and change later, I still ask why, then dig until I find the answer(s).

Until today.

By the time I was done brushing my teeth, thereby expending all the energy I had on tap, and wondering yet again why I seemed to be doing this whole chemo thing backwards, ( I feel best just after chemo, and get progressively worse until the next cycle. Even John said I was weird.) I wobbled back to bed, pushed the everpresent cat to one side, (the little demon always tries to usurp my warm spot) lay down, and opened my conversation with Doc.

“How are you feeling?” Doc asks

“Tired,” I reply

“Chemo tired? Cancer tired? Or just in general?”

“None of the above,” I say. “I’m tired of digging for answers. Tired of being stoned all the time, and tired of aching when I’m not.”

Doc temporizes. “Well, we knew this would be a rough one, what with the increased dosage.”

“Yeah, I know, and I’ll do it again if we can. Look.” I show him the spot on my foot. It’s the external manifestation of this particular type of cancer, and it is all but healed. “That alone tells me the hassle has been worth it, Doc.”

“That does look much improved, doesn’t it.” As usual, Doc makes the phrase a statement.

“Yeah. Wait a sec. I gotta blow my nose.” The noisy result is still spotted with red.

Doc watches me with all the avidity of a hawk spotting dinner and I grin crookedly. “Sorry about that.”

Trina the Tank Engine knocks on the door and hands over a few sheets of paper. They are copies of Doc’s progress notes from the first and second session. (Even the imaginary version of the woman is lax about getting me copies of my records, it seems.)

I scan the pages quickly, knowing that I’ll lose Doc’s attention when my 40 minutes are up, and see nothing we havent already discussed. No new answers, in other words.

“How’s the neuropathy?”

I’m startled at that. I havent mentioned the increased numbness in my hands and legs, but then I remember this is an imaginary conversation, so of course Doc knows things John does not.

“I havent fallen over yet.” It’s my usual flippancy at work again.

Doc starts to re-phrase the question, and I wave it off. “I’m dealing with it. I drop things all the time, and buttoning my shirt is bizarre beyond telling when you can’t feel the buttons, but it’s no biggie.” Even to an imaginary doctor, I’m leery of telling him too much lest he arbitrarily decide to upset the status quo.

“So do you think you can handle the symptoms next time?” Doc jots a few notes in his folder, and I sigh, knowing that it’ll be most of a month before I get to see what he writes, even if Trina the Tank does her job.

“Physically, yeah. Mentally, I’m tired of the whole mess.” I wait for Doc to look up from his scribbling and continue when I have his attention once again. “Dude, it’s like being in a huge warehouse with no exits, and I’m blind. I have to sort out what’s around me strictly by feel, and never mind trying to figure out where the hell I am. After a while, after poring over countless objects and machines, I still cant figure out where the exit is, and all I want to do is sit down and wait for someone to find me.”

“Weren’t you the one who blogged about resolve, just the other day?”

Damned imaginary doctors know too much. “Yes,” I reply tensely. “And I meant every word. I know I’ll get there eventually because there is no one to find me, but that doesnt make the doing of it any less bothersome.”

“I’m sorry,” Doc says, and it’s the only answer I can expect, real or imagined.

There really is no one else to sort out the problems I personally have. Certainly I can talk to any number of people, all of whom are willing to commiserate, but ultimately, none of them can do my thinking for me. Knowing me, I probably wouldn’t let them even if they tried. So I shrug off his reply and tell Doc again that it’s no big deal.

“Well, go see scheduling and they’ll get you set up.” Doc says.

For he and John, that’s my cue that the visit is over, and I can’t help but grin as one last question comes to mind. “Say Doc, one more thing,” I say as I stand and gather up my stuff,

“Sure. What is it?” He has a quizzical look on his face as he pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

“Why is the sky blue?”

My apologies to everyone whose been waiting patiently for me to surface again, and my apologies to those who’ve been reading this blog. I have no cheerful ending today because life isn’t a sit-com, and sometimes you just have to acknowledge the fact that shit happens. This last week or so has been one of those times, and I just don’t have the energy to find the silver lining in the clouds.

The best I can do is munch the Percocet which make me stupid and simply not care for a while as I plod along and wait to see if all this chemo nightmare will be worth the effort.

It may not be fun, but at least it’s real.

Hugs to all, and thanks.

Patric

Monday, December 21, 2009

All’s Quiet on the Western Front

They say “No news is good news.” and in my case, truer words were never spoken.