You know what I haven't done yet? I haven't said "thank you," so I thought I would stop and say, well, thanks.
Thank you for your words of encouragement, your humor, your cards, the angel Christmas tree ornament (it's hanging in my kitchen, Trish!), the hats and scarves, the calls, texts, the e-mails, messages, post responses and cancer jokes (hey, I have cancer and laughter is the best medicine, why not combine the two?). They have all added enormously to my ability to cope with and laugh about all of my breast cancer ailments, which at times have been quite difficult to deal with.
And thank you mom and dad, so very, very, very much, for dealing with all of the insurance agencies, social workers, political representatives, Medicaid problems (because that's all they really want to give you), hospital/surgery/scan/chemo/doctor bills, collections agency notices/calls, and everything else money related, because I know that at this time I simply cannot deal with all of that horrible money related stress, pressure, anxiety, tension, arguing, fighting and ALL THOSE CALLS. Just looking at some of the papers lying about the house and hearing you or dad say "collections" makes my blood pressure go up (which is kind of ok because it's low anyway).
Where would I be had I not been surrounded by kind, caring, thoughtful, good humored family and friends? Honestly, I would probably be completely uninsured, beaten into submission by Medicaid's minions, tired of fighting and lying in a ditch with cancer taking over my body. And not laughing about it. At all. Cause it wouldn't be funny.
Instead I find myself in a warm home with a lovable puppy, a wonderful support system and only minor financial ruin. Yay for me!
But, most importantly to me, Yay for all of you!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Fridays With Doreen
Eight weeks ago today I sat quietly in my recliner in the Cancer Circle (as I like to call it) receiving my second Taxol/Herceptin treatment at the Cancer and Blood Disease Center. Sitting in the recliner to my left was a seemingly cheerful older woman who, I overheard, was in for her first chemotherapy treatment. I also overheard her talking to the nurse about having lived in California and that she used to be a mental health nurse.
Now, I had never been much for conversation when I was there, as I usually tended to feel quite out of sorts and not at all myself, but my first Taxol/Herceptin treatment left me feeling relatively good and I felt up for conversation, so I asked Doreen about her life. We talked for the rest of the time we were there that day, which was quite a while as we both have treatments that run for approximately 6-7 hours in total.
The following Friday I walked back to the Cancer Circle and saw that there was a seat open next to Doreen. I happily took the seat and we chatted away the time. She gave me string cheese, dried fruit and nuts, although I had nothing to offer her.
We continued on this way, although we were not always able to sit near enough to one another to really be able to chat. Doreen has made me lunch on numerous occasions and brought me citrus fruit and small citrus trees and she has made me several knitted hats to keep my bald head warm (not to mention bags full of knit hats that she made and donated to keep other's heads warm). I have brought her strawberries and string cheese and, hopefully, as many smiles as she has brought me.
Today was Doreen's last of her eight treatments and while I am very happy that she does not have to have any more chemo at this time, I am going to miss her. We were able to sit near each other and chat today, and even though I didn't feel up to doing much talking for a couple of hours, the talk time we did manage to squeeze in was quite nice.
I have always dreaded going to the cancer center because that is the place I go to get shot up with drugs and poisons that make me feel disjointed, nauseated, achy, cranky, tired, out of sorts, not myself, weak, irritated and generally uncomfortable; but I found myself actually looking forward to chemo days because I got to see Doreen. We exchanged addresses, phone numbers and e-mail addresses, so hopefully we'll be able to keep in touch, but I'm going to miss Fridays with Doreen.
Now, I had never been much for conversation when I was there, as I usually tended to feel quite out of sorts and not at all myself, but my first Taxol/Herceptin treatment left me feeling relatively good and I felt up for conversation, so I asked Doreen about her life. We talked for the rest of the time we were there that day, which was quite a while as we both have treatments that run for approximately 6-7 hours in total.
The following Friday I walked back to the Cancer Circle and saw that there was a seat open next to Doreen. I happily took the seat and we chatted away the time. She gave me string cheese, dried fruit and nuts, although I had nothing to offer her.
We continued on this way, although we were not always able to sit near enough to one another to really be able to chat. Doreen has made me lunch on numerous occasions and brought me citrus fruit and small citrus trees and she has made me several knitted hats to keep my bald head warm (not to mention bags full of knit hats that she made and donated to keep other's heads warm). I have brought her strawberries and string cheese and, hopefully, as many smiles as she has brought me.
Today was Doreen's last of her eight treatments and while I am very happy that she does not have to have any more chemo at this time, I am going to miss her. We were able to sit near each other and chat today, and even though I didn't feel up to doing much talking for a couple of hours, the talk time we did manage to squeeze in was quite nice.
I have always dreaded going to the cancer center because that is the place I go to get shot up with drugs and poisons that make me feel disjointed, nauseated, achy, cranky, tired, out of sorts, not myself, weak, irritated and generally uncomfortable; but I found myself actually looking forward to chemo days because I got to see Doreen. We exchanged addresses, phone numbers and e-mail addresses, so hopefully we'll be able to keep in touch, but I'm going to miss Fridays with Doreen.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
T-minus 23 Days
My treatment tomorrow will put me at exactly 23 days away from my chemotherapy completion date. Exclamation points, smiley faces and asterisks could only work to undermine my excitement.
Tomorrow will be my 9th of the 12 weekly Taxol treatments I was prescribed, and while they have definitely been much easier to tolerate than the Adriamycin and Cytoxan treatments I had for the first two months, I am very much looking forward to purging all of these poisons from my system and starting on my path to recovery.
I am tired. Literally burned out. The temptation to skip classes this week, brush the papers and reading aside and sleep instead was almost more than I could take. My daily activities are continually hampered by my tiredness; it is similar to being perpetually drunk, except without any of the good feelings -- or perhaps it's more similar to being perpetually hung over: My head buzzes, my body aches, my vision is sometimes impaired, my speech sometimes slurs, and the abilities of walking straight, keeping my balance, listening, paying attention, remembering things and speaking coherently have never proved so difficult, nor have I ever felt so triumphant in being able to do any of these things in every day life. Of course, the longer into chemotherapy I go, the more tired I become and the more difficult these taken-for-granted abilities are.
But today I am turning around and looking at the light at the end of the tunnel, because it is not so far away now, and I am smiling, because even if the light is coming from the radiation I will be plunged into directly after exiting this damn tunnel, I've heard it's not such a dark and dismal journey, and certainly not so long at a mere seven weeks.
Tomorrow will be my 9th of the 12 weekly Taxol treatments I was prescribed, and while they have definitely been much easier to tolerate than the Adriamycin and Cytoxan treatments I had for the first two months, I am very much looking forward to purging all of these poisons from my system and starting on my path to recovery.
I am tired. Literally burned out. The temptation to skip classes this week, brush the papers and reading aside and sleep instead was almost more than I could take. My daily activities are continually hampered by my tiredness; it is similar to being perpetually drunk, except without any of the good feelings -- or perhaps it's more similar to being perpetually hung over: My head buzzes, my body aches, my vision is sometimes impaired, my speech sometimes slurs, and the abilities of walking straight, keeping my balance, listening, paying attention, remembering things and speaking coherently have never proved so difficult, nor have I ever felt so triumphant in being able to do any of these things in every day life. Of course, the longer into chemotherapy I go, the more tired I become and the more difficult these taken-for-granted abilities are.
But today I am turning around and looking at the light at the end of the tunnel, because it is not so far away now, and I am smiling, because even if the light is coming from the radiation I will be plunged into directly after exiting this damn tunnel, I've heard it's not such a dark and dismal journey, and certainly not so long at a mere seven weeks.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
