Actually, yesterday's D-H visit took up the whole morning, because it turned out that I had a meeting with the nurse and the radiation oncologist. The nurse was really encouraging, said that if I hadn't felt any nausea yet I probably won't, and explained that the nausea usually hits within an hour of the radiation. Since I forgot to take the Compazine one day this week, with no nausea, I seem to have lucked out.
The radiation oncologist said that I seem to be tolerating the radiation extremely well and asked if I had any questions. Couldn't think of any.
Then upstairs for the chemo. I actually got a brief general conversation going with the other patients, but we're all in our own little areas, so everyone got quickly tired of shouting across the room at each other. I continued talking with my neighbors for a bit: a man with aplastic anemia who was only in for blood work and rehydration, and a woman whose ovarian cancer had returned with metasteses and who was starting a different type of chemo. She showed me her half inch of hair and hoped that the new chemo wouldn't take it. A blind woman, accompanied by guide dog and husband, came in. The dog settled quietly at her feet. The husband sat beside her, not speaking. Another woman, who I recognized from back when we volunteered at the Community Kitchen, made up for their silence, talking to the nurses, and when they were busy, to herself. It seemed to be a conversation that she enjoyed. The couple who was there on Monday were back, this time waiting for him to get a blood transfusion as well as the chemo.
The trouble is, I still don't feel that I belong there. Those people are sick. They're getting terrible side effects from the poisons that they pray will cure them, and at the same time the disease itself is destroying them.
And then there's me. I feel good most of the time and not bad the rest of it. I have the word of two doctors that I'm doing a good job of managing the chemo and radiation. It's easy to pretend that I'm some kind of Super Sickie, flying across Metropolis with my cape flowing behind me, landing on the precarious rooftops and balancing on impossibly high heels, and then in the next panel there are jagged lightning strikes and POW! as I take on (and out) the cancer, which slinks off, shaking a futile fist at me....
But probably the other people in the chemo lab felt strong, once, too. They couldn't understand how they could feel this good and be this sick. They and their long-suffering care givers clung to every shred of hope. Where is the tipping point between them and me?
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1 comment:
I think the difference is that you have an entire life of actively living your life as healthfully as possible, and taking impeccable care of yourself. I really think this has to have made a difference in how your body handles the treatment and how well you're able to fight this nasty disease. I think what we've learned is that cancer is an equal opportunity illness, but how your body fights it really does depend on inner and outer strength. I think you are a super hero.
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