Where’d I Go?

I have been an emotional eater my whole life. One of my earliest memories is standing up in my kitchen highchair in order to reach the bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough that Mom put on the shelf “out of reach” above my seat. It was a secret between me and Petee, the Manchester terrier.

I lost my first 20-some pounds in 4th grade, the next 20-some in 6th. It seems like every 2-4 years of my life I’ve “gotten healthy”. As I’ve gotten longer in tooth, the amount needed to lose to appear slim has increased, along with the span of my wardrobe sizes. My last slender round coincided with daughter-two’s romp with serious anorexia. Being slender (or perhaps the effort to get slender) has seemed too obsessive ever since. I even managed to maintain my weight last year, through 3 surgeries, 6 rounds of chemo, and 7 weeks of radiation.

So the little bonus of having a green tummy this last year has presented itself as a 28-pound loss over the past 6 months. Hello again, size 12! Glad that I kept all those pants. Honestly, it’s been a mostly miserable bout, but I’ve wondered if this whole cancer thing has been so transforming as to cure me of my deep, compelling attraction to food. Does this mean I can finally have a “normal”, nutrition-focused relationship with what I eat? All it took was cancer? It almost seems like magic… yeah, probably too good to be true.

Feeling lousy a good deal of the time, I have actually complained to my doctors about this. It would seem that I remain a complete outlier. Yes, it’s in the research lit, but “no one in our recollection has ever responded to ‘radiation’, ‘herceptin’, or ‘tamoxifen’ with continued nausea and weight loss before. We’ll just wait till you’re done with… Besides, you look great now.”

But after a lackluster investigation last summer, and a present loss of 15% of my body over six months, I’m feeling a little abandoned and brushed under the rug by my regular doctors. Besides, it appears that I’m down to the last set of pants (including that truth-telling pair of blue jeans in every woman’s closet) Last week I put my foot down and pretty much insisted that I see E-N-T along with an endoscopy next week. Will the mystery of my disappearing appetite then be revealed? Stay tuned for the resolution of the case of the missing tight pants, better known as “chocolate chips, where are you now?”

Happy Anniversary

Hubby tells me that I simply cannot just abandon this little blog foray without a satisfying conclusion. I think that “conclusion” part is one aspect that I’ve been avoiding. A part of me likes having this out there to return to, and my post-cancer reality is all about fumbling forward, not concluding. I also question, what’s the point of writing this now that all the interesting drama has finally faded away?

Throughout this fall I’ve relived and reflected on all the events of the previous year. It still seems surreal to me. Tomorrow will be one year ago that I woke up to the tremendous pain on my right arm that followed my 2nd chemo treatment. That arm thing was a game-changer. In retrospect, I can see that it fundamentally shifted how I see things now.

All friends and family know that I returned to work on a very part-time basis last spring while going through radiation, only to get laid off for the fall, due to budget cuts. The summer’s focus was completely on healing, and building up physical strength and endurance for whatever might come my way. Then stimulus money (retirement incentives that opened up positions) provided a new teaching position, 4th grade this time, at a new school. So work wise, I’ve been trying to whittle down my 70-hour work weeks to 50-hours, and maintain some kind of physical fitness and meager connections with family and friends. I’ve slipped back into old workaholic routines, and feel some shame for being an ungrateful and inattentive friend to so many who’ve been incredibly generous throughout and beyond this whole ordeal.

Still, it’s become clear that the past year has transformed me (and probably my family) in some subtle ways. The first that comes to mind, is it’s going to take a long passage of time to learn to trust my body again. I mentally composed a blog entry in September that I planned to title, Chicken Little Lives. I had a scare with elevated liver enzymes that sent back scouring the internet, and left me convinced that my cancer had indeed metastasized to my liver (there are a few lymph nodes beneath the ribs that aren’t checked during surgery). Of course, of course, my liver enzymes settled down, and I was left feeling extremely foolish and melodramatic.

Then it hit me that this is what the other side of cancer is like. The experience of your body betraying you (in my case twice–yes the arm was benign, but it only underscored my body’s tendency to grow things that shouldn’t be there) creates a rain shadow of insecurity. Intellectually, I now realize that it’s going to take a lot of minor bumps, scrapes, and hiccups to relearn to take my health in stride. Emotionally, I’ll continue to be hostage to my doubts for the unforeseeable future.

As to the continued clinical effects, I continue to be something of a statistical outlier. Despite all expectations that nausea would dissipate soon after chemo was finished in March, it has continued throughout the spring, summer and now into the fall. It no longer harangues me for as much as 50% of the time, as it did. However, the general repellence of food has continued. Since June I’ve lost nearly 25 pounds. Cosmetically, and physiologically, yeah, it’s great. However, it’s been pretty damned unpleasant. After tests eliminated a possible ulcer, or blown out adrenal glands, doctors chalked it up to the Herceptin, which I just finished October 28. But now, we’re considering that the daily Tamoxifen may be the culprit. This week I’ll start a 4-week experiment of going off the Tamoxifen and see if the symptoms go away. There are alternatives to that drug, although they have their own side-effects, and the prescribed course is still recommended to be 5 years. Whatever…

And my taste buds and smell receptors are still affected. I’m trying to wrap my head around the idea that it may taste like I’m sucking on pennies for the rest of my life. Yes, it’s very much a drag, but I do accept that I may have permanently lost some faculties in the war in I seem to have won. I’m still moving forward, albeit a little lighter.

As to the good lessons cancer lets me take forward, there are a few. First, it that I breathe a lot more, that great yoga practice of being completely conscious of your breath moving in and out. It’s very powerful stuff. Then there are creative dimensions that I’m exploring again. Throughout the spring and summer I was able to take a watercolor painting class that was very therapeutic on many levels. Just today I got my own set of mail ordered painting supplies, because I really miss that creative energy. And lastly, it really is easier to take life’s inconveniences in stride. I still feel that shadowy chill of Death looking over my shoulder. It so much easier to let the petty and negative stuff go after living through the knowledge that there’s so little time to waste. And I’m grateful to see that the windshield is much larger than the rearview mirror.

Easing Back

Over the past few days I’ve eased back into both school and District settings. The experience is bringing me renewed appreciation for community, as well as the awareness of others’ discomfort with my illness. Staff and students at my school site have been extremely warm and responsive to my presence back at school. Of course, my connections to my school (and to all who read this with regularity) are strong.

But I’m also seeing that outside of my own school and immediate circles, that my muted eyebrows, eyelashes and hatted head make some people pretty uncomfortable. Some don’t know what to say, so they don’t say anything. Not even a generic, “Hi, how’re doing?” It leaves me feeling kind of invisible.

I’ve mentioned this to a few friends who’ve suggested that I address the topic here. Of course I first have to acknowledge that I can’t really speak for anyone other than myself, but maybe something I write can better prepare anyone with tips how to interact with an acquaintance going through a tough stretch of health. (I specify health, because few would deny that distractions can be a blessing for those that need some escape from some difficult loss– say a death.) With health issues, though, we’re pretty much trapped within our own skin. While distractions are nice, problems within our own bodies are never far from from consciousness. I can only address parameters of what you might say in social situations; I can’t answer to how much or how little a connection you’re comfortable extending. There will always people in situations that just freak us out too much.

It’s extremely common to be afraid of saying the “wrong thing”, but I’m pretty sure that the worst thing is leaving a person to feel like they don’t exist. It’s completely human to avoid situations that make us feel awkward, but sometimes that means avoiding a person who may already feel cut off. Sometimes we avoid eye contact or basic greetings. You can never go wrong by saying hi and asking how they’re day is going. This more specific question keeps the query within an immediate context without opening up to the dark chasm of “what’s it like to skirt death?” Answering to a mere day is much more manageable, and likely to provide an response that offers a connection without overwhelming them or you. A person who is dying is well versed in living one day at a time, and and are brightened by having authentic interactions with people like you. Moments of feeling those true connections, however brief, are sunlit gifts for most people in any stage of health.

Not Only Standing, But Smiling Too

First off, my apologies to those who’ve expressed concern about my lack of updates. With the end of chemo, the coming of spring, visiting family and friends, preparations for the return to school, arrangements for radiation, elation, and fatigue, my “muse” has taken a little vacation. Speaking generally, I’m doing quite well, while grappling with transitions.

Chemo was completed just over 3 weeks ago. Surprisingly, the final was NOT the worst of all treatments, owing to the mistaken Taxol for treatment #5, which was raging. However, I still seem to have a good amount of Taxotere and Carboplatin in my system, and am not-so-patiently waiting for low-grade nausea, mouth peeling, very poor vision, and the ever-present smell of burning flesh to dissipate. The oncologist has warned me that it could take a couple of months for side-effects to completely go away, and start to get my hair back. Of course, I continue with Herceptin-only for the next 6 months every 3 weeks. Side effects are expected to be minimal, although my track record for side effects tends to be pretty comprehensive.

In the meantime, I’m generally very happy, despite feeling a little run-down. I’ve been deeply rejuvenated by a string of visitors, starting with my mom just before my last chemo, then an unexpected stop by my aunt and uncle from Ohio. Soon after that Chloe came home from college in Massachusetts (2 weeks, leaves tomorrow) along with her boyfriend, Matt (wrapping up a 2-year fellowship in England). Lastly, my dear high school friends Michelle and Trink/Kate, visited from Texas and Michigan, respectively. This visit was a phenomenal, whirlwind gathering after a 16-year gap that left me steeped in joy and gratitude.

It also leaves me with mostly challenges to now look forward to: taxes/financial aid applications; radiation; and return to school in time for state testing. School’s an especially stressful environment, what with 25% of us receiving pink slips for next year, loosing our 3rd principal in 5 years at the end of June, and probably shuffling of a few teachers to different campuses next fall (likely including me). Surely, this is going to test all the re-prioritizing and anxiety reducers I’ve strived so hard to internalize over the past 6 months. But life goes on, and that has really been the point all along. I’m just looking to continue with a shifted point of balance.

End of March, Hendry's Beach, a treasured day with Michelle & Trink/Kate

Epic

Epic is the only reasonable term for the degree of tummy problems that chemotherapy has brought on. The scale of the affliction is just so far beyond what’s considered “normal”. When you say the word constipation, it sounds almost quaint in a blushing grandmother sort of way. But the kind I’m talking about will take you down, and hold your body in the fetal position for days. It’s like the last 12 inches of your colon have been ripped out, stomped on by gritty elephant hooves, shoved back in, then filled with small bricks that have no way to get out. Having birthed 2 pretty large children, I’m here to tell you that chemo-constipation and its intestinal damage are a completely different beast.

I’ve learned to anticipate these challenges, and have grown pretty proactive (I’ve acquired the dosage term  prophylactic), and I treat them aggressively before the damage gets too bad. But, Jeeze, by this past Friday, my medicine included all of the following for that day alone: 1 dose Sennecot, 1 dose Milk of Magnesia, 2 doses suppositories, 1 dose of MiraLax, an enema, and if that weren’t enough, at the end the day 1 dose of prescriptive Colace. I mean, any two of those above dosages in a day would more than take care of a regular person… Once again, I’m forced to realize that, good grief, this whole chemo thing must really be a bad-boy. When I step back and give it some perspective, the only appropriate term is epic. 

I know, the day after tomorrow is the last chemo treatment (!!!!!!!… oh, I hope)

Epic.

The Plusses

My last post was pretty grim, seems to me. In the interim, lots of appointments and class commitments have forced me to get out of the house that I think have been positive in the long run: doctor’s, “healing touch”, and physical therapy appointments, yoga and weight-lifting classes for cancer patients. Here at week’s end, my outlook’s sunnier and I want to publish my passing appreciations of this whole experience as something of an antidote.

I’ve had renewed and more consistent contact with friends and family. This cancer has brought people back into my life who were long-lost, although much loved and missed. (For example, two of my best friends from high school are coming out for a reunion visit in late March– it’s been 15+ years getting all 3 of us together!) It also keeps me in closer touch with even beloved friends who are local that I’ve let drift away.

On a related thought, this reminder to all of us of mortality  has kept our communications immediate and authentic. It’s so easy to take our lives and interconnectedness for granted. The specter of Cancer (with scars, discomforts, and baldness) holds clearly in the spotlight  the reminder that this time together is all too transitory. This disease has led to deeply satisfying chats and visits with so many beloved friends and family members that would probably have been much more perfunctory.

I’m finally getting to work on equalizing that mind-body-spirit balance. Taking advantage of the free yoga, art, and “healing touch” at Santa Barbara’s Cancer Center has given me the opportunity to practice lots more self-healing skills. The deep relaxation, guided imagery, and focused breathing are things I hope to take forward with me to sustain health and a more balanced life from here on.

The magnitude of this battle improves the chance that these positive steps will remain permanent. I want to be realistic and acknowledge that old habits are hard to break, but a lot of survivors declare themselves to be fundamentally changed for the better by cancer. Being forced to face the “big deep” can permanently shift one’s outlook on life for every day after. Embracing the role of “survivor” keeps these lessons immediate.

I’ve made some really good, new friendships that are hard to forge in the surface of our busy, everyday lives. The bimonthly Breast Cancer Support Group, and the Wellfit weight-lifting program puts lots of us together in this trench. It’s not so much that misery loves company, as much as appreciating for the shorthand exchange of shared, sometimes creepy experiences.

I appreciate nature more. Over the past few months, learning so viscerally to live in each moment has helped me experience the beauty of the natural world even more richly. I’ve become enamored by perfect profiles of plant shadows, and transfixed by the various sound textures created by wind through different types of trees. I’m inspired to draw things again as a meditation on perception itself.

I’m less bothered by unimportant details, and less limited by others’ superficial opinions of me. Caring less about what others think and being comfortable in your own skin have always been the best pitch for growing older, and that lesson’s been fast-tracked. It’s what I like to call learning to live from the inside out, doing what enriches our spirits, regardless of how ridiculous it may look from the outside. Anyone else for that upright paddle boarding?

I’ve been graced with friends who somehow define friendship and womanhood with their visits, ready chats, and casseroles. It’s a loving fearlessness I guess, wrought by the knowledge that sometimes those we love can so easily slip away from us. These friends have demonstrated such emotional clarity and confidence in their well-timed and tangible support, brushing away the common awkwardness of not being sure what to do or say. They model the kind of person I want to be.

The love I hold for my life partner, Rusty, has been renewed every day by his ever-present humor and devotion. Nobody ever wants any reasons to test the bonds of marriage, and serious illness surely does. Suffice it say, I consider myself so much luckier in my marital happiness than I ever had cause to expect growing up. Rusty’s commitment and flexibility have also set a high standard for our daughter’s expectations of what men can bring to relationships. Yeah, really lucky.

Big, Stinking, Pokey Cannon

 

Grass bulbs used as hair combs by the Chumash

This weekend was a reminder of what a formidable foe breast cancer is. So dogged, it demands a truly wrenching adversary in chemotherapy. Yes, a rough round this weekend.

First I need to share a little secret (for me “dirty”) that I can’t believe I’ve only heard now: women who experience lots of nausea during pregnancy tend to feel increased nausea during chemotherapy. Talk about adding insult to an already injured body. Both pregnancies I endured what we fondly called “morning-noon-and-night” sickness, for four months. Seems to me like I’ve already done my time in the queazy department. Hope that you never need this insight, but now you’re warned.

Before Wednesday’s treatment #5 I was informed that not only were my red blood cell counts low enough to require a blood stimulant, but my platelets are getting borderline as well, perhaps necessitating a blood transfusion for the next (and last) round. This goes along with already receiving a stimulant for my white blood cells since treatment #2 (called Neulasta). In and of themselves, getting stimulants to boost one’s blood cells sounds like a right-fine idea. We know that we need blood cells; they’re there for a really good reason. The concrete reality is a little more sobering.

First of all these blood stimulants, that come in the form of shots, are extremely expensive. Let me repeat the mantra I chant daily a dozen times, thank God for decent health insurance! Because each of the white blood cell-building Neulasta shots (1 after each chemo treatment) retails from 2-7 thousand dollars. Then, the new (to me) red blood cell-building Procrit shots (1 each week after each treament) are about $2,000 each. So clearly, in currency alone there’s a high value (of say $10,000 per treatment) to keeping the chemotherapy from killing more than the cancer cells. While hard to look at in terms of cold, hard cash, it’s certainly worth it to me and my family.

Then there’s the physical cost for taking these blood builders. In stimulating the bones to produce more cells, it hurts like the dickins. Imagine all the joints of your body being comprised of these pokey grass bulbs, pictured above. Your shoulders, your spine, your hips, your knees, and every joint in your feet all made of pokey things. Now imagine moving around. For a week. Yeah, ouch. Crazy pain. And I’m not even going to get into the side effects that one should actually worry about. 

Just to keep the situation fresh, I also had a little mishap with my chemo med’s last Wednesday. They gave me Taxol instead of Taxodere. Ooops. Happy to say that the term “oops” is not as critical as when coming from a surgeon, but still was a situation that had to be rectified. My understanding is that the Taxol they gave me in error is a very similar, “lite” version of the Taxodere I should’ve had. No real harm done, but it meant I needed to go back on Thursday afternoon for another 2 hours to get the proper med and dosage dripped in. My oncology nurse (my favorite) felt extremely badly, and I realize that I’ve hesitated to share her goof (Stockholm Syndrome?) On the plus side, she gave me extra anti-nausea med’s (both IV and pills) to make up for it.

But really, some things shouldn’t be dwelled on too much. Gotta just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I try to enjoy all the moments I can (laughing with family and friends, the pets, yoga) and try not to dread too much the moments I have to endure (painful joints and bones.) But examining this past weekend’s travails forces me to remember that these nasty chemicals make up a big stinking cannon, because my enemy must be mean. I’m just really am grateful to have that big, stinking cannon.

Driving Forward Again

Ah, to experience the break-out exhilaration of a 16 year-old again! The freedom of driving is a wonderful thing! I was given clearance by the Ear Nose & Throat doctor last Wednesday to drive again. Not that the vertigo is completely gone, but it has improved enough to leave me relatively functional behind the wheel (based on regular self-assessment). It’s been over 2 months since I’ve been able to drive myself (or even ambulate myself any distance), so I’m really savoring the self-sufficiency. Need some milk?–I’ll go! Gosh, I’m low on cash–better drive to the ATM! Prescription to pick up?–it’ll only take me 15 minutes! Never have errands been so invigorating! I’m already planning some of those greatly postponed activities for next week: yoga classes, cardio activities at the gym, going out for tea, and maybe even swinging by school’s staff room for social purposes. After all, next week puts me at the most energetic stage of my chemo cycle.

The vertigo is still something of a hanging chad. The ENT did rule out a virus of the inner ear, but BPPV and chemo are still possible causes in the running. Given that the dizziness has actually gotten a little better in the week since treatment-4, I’m still putting my money on on BPPV, it’s just that Dr. Mesner couldn’t trigger it at that time in his office. I’m invited back in any time the symptoms become more pronounced again. In the meantime, I’m trying to avoid turning my head sharply up or down when driving (not too difficult).

Round-4 of chemo proved itself to be all that chemo’s sold as: lousy. About 5 days in bed and over a week of nausea, despite all the meds. I did, however, put in a request to receive the top of the line anti-emetic for the last 2 rounds. It’s very expensive, called Emend, and I only found out about it from whispered tips shared at my breast cancer support group. Hopefully 2 weeks is enough time to get it approved by my insurance companies, because it gets administered before the treatment. To get me through this past week I’ve turned to herbal varieties of anti-emetics, which have their own quirky side effects.

As an example of my meanderings, here I am 2/3 through chemotherapy, and I still have some hair (stubble) on my shaved head, but hardly enough eyebrows to indicate where to draw in fake ones. Also, between both eyes, I only have about 6 eyelashes longer than an eighth of an inch. That means that mascara’s of no use; there’re no longer enough hairs to keep the mascara from getting all over the eyelid itself. As a result, all my facial features now have to be completely penciled in with make-up. Without it, I look like the Death character in a black-and-white Igmar Bergman film (no, I mean, really.)

And while on the subject of vanity, you’d think that with all this nausea I’d at least be looking a little more trim. Sadly, not so. While the chemo doesn’t seem to make me bloated, my food choices tend toward comfort food (not known for its slimming effects). Food, in general, doesn’t seem appealing with the queazies, although eating is one of the more dependable remedies to treat the nausea. So, sometimes I eat crunchy Cheetoes-thingies from Trader Joe’s because they’re cozy and soothing, and they end up settling my tummy better than an apple. I’m leaving myself with the big project of losing 20 pounds when this chapter’s passed, as a result. The big motivator is health. Fat holds a lot of unnecessary hormones in the body; having a highly hormone-sensitive tumor makes me more vulnerable to fat’s effects. In the meantime, boy do I avoid mirrors.

Except rear-view mirrors, going back to the subject of driving. Speaking metaphorically, this arm thing is finally far enough behind me to offer some addressable perspective. Seven weeks ago today I had surgery to remove that tumor. I realize that my family, close friends, and I were all taken to a precipitous edge that eve, where the landscape was pretty dark and forbidding. And as physically painful as that benign recovery was, the bright, healthy beacon awaiting me is hard not to view as some kind of miracle. I remain a profound believer in science. Logic tells me that the reality of that tumor’s benign makeup was as it always was; the diagnosis of the unseeable was simply mistaken. But I consider the certainty of so many doctors both here and at UCLA that the tumor was malignant, and I reflect on the healing thoughts, loving prayers, and simple consideration of so very many people, and can’t help wondering if it all materially changed the tumor. While I personally can’t make that leap of faith and invest spiritually in the All-Knowing Being in the flowing robes who bestows to personal favors to desperate pleas, I do believe in the power of thinking, prayer, and contemplation. Still, turning water into wine, malignant to benign? Stuck in my own bald, little pea-brain, I do embrace the strength and sustenance of the love we give each other. Maybe for now the miracle is receiving the power of those connections, letting the arm remain a mystery, and embracing the  gift of discovering how many have joined me through this stumbling journey, if only for stolen moments.

Winky, Wenky, Wanky

Okay, I’ll come clean… I’ve kind of been in hiding. I’ve been really frustrated by my continued (3 weeks now) issue with vertigo. It’s not severe, but is bothersome enough to keep me from driving or walking far from home by myself. I’ve been waiting to address the issue publicly here until it finally drifted away, or I got some answers from my doctors. At this point I can at least rule out the scariest prospect; an MRI on Thursday shows no tumor in my head or inner ear. Yes, that is great, but I’ve suspected for a week that the actual cause is just regular BPPV (benign paroxysmal positional vertigo) the most common cause of vertigo. (BPPV is precipitated by crystal calcium deposits in the inner ear that get loose with age and float around, giving mixed signals to your sense of balance.) A few physical therapists and Ear, Nose and Throat specialists are equipped to address BPPV. However, I still need a referral from one of my doctors, which means even more waiting. Additionally, the way it has played out with my doctors has left me feeling a bit passed around and patronized. Functionally and emotionally I’ve spent an awful lot of the past 2 months waiting, and frankly, it’s getting pretty old. 

Beyond the medical appointments that Rusty and friends drive me to, I spend my time taking little walks around the neighborhood, reading, and puttering (better known as wasting time). I haven’t dealt with the numerous piles of household papers I’d promised I was going to, haven’t written the letters I need to, and certainly haven’t started working on those tax forms with this window of timely opportunity. For the past 2 weeks I’ve been wanting to visit school to catch up a little with the lives of my many friends and colleagues, but lack of transportation and this emotional divot have impeded that goal. So, for the short term, I’m allowing myself to be unproductive. At times it gets lonesome and hollow, though.

Chemo #4 is next Wednesday, the 28th. This is my “good” week before treatment. So, tonight I’ll enjoy another movie with Rusty, read myself to sleep, and wake up hopeful that the dizziness has lessened in the morning. Really, any day now…

Just Chemo

Yesterday morning we got a new final diagnosis of the tumor in my arm: a benign tumor of the nerve sheath, otherwise known as a schwannoma. Note, the focus on benign (happy dance!) As stated before, it interfered with the median nerve of the arm (seems to be the main nerve for the hand’s operation), sometimes mocking carpel tunnel syndrome. Schwannomas are typically slow growing. Today Dr. Latimer suggested that it was likely affected by the chemo regime, either attacking or enhancing the schwannoma’s growth, causing the bleeding that instigated the arm’s pain…. oh. This also helps explain why the whole thing’s been so painful.

Next coming Monday I start physical therapy (PT), which’ll probably run 3 times a week for 4 weeks. I’ve been warned that it may take as long as a year to regain full function of the arm and hand. But, boy-oh-boy that scenario’s a long-sight better than the prognosis would’ve been with sarcoma (where just surviving a year can be shaky). And I still have all the arm/body parts I need to live fully for the rest of my many, many days! So, I’m looking at 3 more chemo sessions over the next 9 weeks, a 3-week recovery, then 7 weeks of daily (M-F) radiation. That should take me through the mid to end of May, I believe.

Last week I had round-3 of chemo, meaning I’m now halfway done. Yey! Getting through the last treatment seems to have been expedited by judicious use of new anti-nausea drugs and drinking copious amounts of water to clear out the system. The only remaining symptom dragging me down a bit is the vertigo that’s been lingering for a couple of weeks. Too many weird drugs over the past month is the probable (and hopeful) cause. It keeps me from driving myself anywhere or walking far by myself in the meantime, just when I’m feeling otherwise better and restless. 

I’m thinking that this summer, if that’s not too soon, I’d like to try upright board paddling with those arm and other sundry muscles. Last weekend we saw some paddle-boarders on the still ocean waters with dolphins and pelicans cavorting all about them. Seems like a great way for a middle-aged person to feel really alive. In about a month I start a 10-week Wellfit program, designed to help cancer patients regain strength and fitness. And in the meantime, I’d like to avail myself of a few classes offered for free at the Cancer Center, like yoga and focused healing. 

And so I remain patient, positive, and ready to move forward (with my hand on a stable surface).