Three Down, One To Go

A week ago today I was lying in my hospital bed counting down the hours before I could escape the confines of my room. The first day of chemo has typically been the “easiest” because I’m starting out with nutrition in my belly, a good night’s rest and a strong body. However, by the end of Day 1 and until I get wheeled out of the hospital on Day 3, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Knowing how hard the chemo hits me, I try to take advantage of every second I have before I’m hooked up to the IV pole that carries the chemo through my veins.

So, last Monday morning after being admitted to the hospital and waiting for the pharmacy to mix my “chemo cocktail,” I took the time to explore a little bit. What I found was refreshing: air. There’s a covered bridge connecting two parts of the hospital that happens to cross over to the same floor as the oncology unit. I decided to jog back and forth across the bridge to increase my energy, breathe the crisp, morning air and mentally prepare for my upcoming treatment. It felt good to be alive.

One might think that I fill my days in the hospital reading, flipping through magazines, watching movies, calling room service, but that’s just not the case. My level of discomfort is so high that most of the time all I can do is close my eyes and try to sleep. Some of the symptoms I’ve experienced over the course of my chemo treatments include nausea, drowsiness, diarrhea, vomiting, constipation, ear ringing, loss of appetite, headache, and hot flashes. Nurses do their best to make sure I’m comfortable, but ironically, they can give me one medicine to help mitigate a symptom such as nausea, but that will usually just add another--constipation. The entire thing is a lose-lose situation until I get home. Nursing myself back to health takes about 72 hours, but my boys help to speed that process up by just being around me. And Erin, well, he’s just amazing through and through. 

Today, I shoveled snow and ate homemade chocolate chip cookies...simple pleasures, but they mean an awful lot to a girl like me. It’s sometimes hard for me to imagine the stark difference of where I was a week ago versus where I am today. My next cycle will begin after the New Year, so I have plenty of time to celebrate this holiday season with my family feeling healthy and strong.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Love,

Sareana

More is Better

Last week Erin and I took a whirlwind trip to Duke to meet with my neuro-oncologist, have my blood drawn and get an MRI. The good news is that the MRI was clean, which drew big sighs of relief from Erin and myself. There’s really no bad news except that I’ll have to endure two more cycles of chemotherapy, which I expected would be the case. Due to the fact that I’ve tolerated the first two cycles so well, the doctor sees no reason not to continue the regimen with the theory that, in this case, more is better.

I must say, I’m not looking forward to tomorrow morning when I return to the hospital for three more days of total discomfort. I know it can be done because I’ve done it twice, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I think I’m reaching the point that I’m just so drained and tired of the weight of cancer.  There are bright spots, like a clean MRI or the knowledge that I’m nearing the end of treatment, but I hate that this is my job: beating cancer. As the popular bumper sticker suggests: “I’d rather be fishing.”

After our meeting with my doc at Duke, Erin and I rushed to the airport for my flight back home to Denver (Erin took a different flight because he headed off to LA to begin a 4-day trip). Arriving only 20 minutes prior to departure, I knew my chances of making the flight were slim. Without any time to debrief my doc visit, Erin and I parted briskly then I headed for security. Luckily, the lines were short and I was making good time until a TSA agent asked me to remove my hat. I told the woman in a soft voice that I had cancer and would prefer a private screening due to the fact that I was bald. She could tell I was in distress about making my flight and frankly, I was feeling pretty vulnerable in that moment. She sped up the process and cleared me to collect my belongings. A moment later, with my back turned, she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “You’re not alone in this fight.” With a lump in my throat, I rushed on the airplane shoes untied, took my seat, put on my sunglasses and let out the tears I’d been holding in. I just wanted to get home and see my boys.

Love,

Sareana