Before chemo infusion today came the three-month
follow-up look-see at my upper innards.
Whenever my oncology Doc wheels out these before
and after tumor comparison studies, I feel like an anti-advertisement for quack
medicine wrinkle cream:
Yes, folks, there it is:
Before treatment? This big.
After treatment? Bigger.
But, as we found in the pre-findings on Day Seventy, there are no NEW spots in there, so we’re at least keeping it localized
for now. Doc points at the screen to the trained-eye visible nuance of change
in the tumor; I pretend that I see it. Sometimes, progress is when the horizon
moves closer as I sit still.
Sometimes … what we see and what we want to
see is a quiet tantrum in the background.
The chemo drug side effects are more of a nuisance
and more tolerable now, perhaps because they’re less mysterious. I’m a friend with
fatigue, a buddy to my bowels & bruises, an ally with my appetite, and mentor
to my moods.
The latter have become pesky, as my emotions don’t always listen to my advice. They’ve trusted me up ‘til now, but
they’ve become quirky, sometimes raring up when they should rest, and going dark
when they should be bright-eyed.
It’s become the main event in my counseling
sessions.
Yes, I’m being unfairly sidetracked by chemically-induced
interlopers who make up their own rules. My job? Change the playing
field.
Next up? Looks like more radiation
treatments in the offing, and we’re having another MRI look at my
brain tumor in two weeks, just to see if it’s remaining a miniature sleeping
giant as my lung keeps center stage.
I’m also getting a power injectable IV port
because of these repeated failed and/or difficult IV sticks. For the infusions,
blood draws and contrast mediums needed, it’s time for a handy one-size-fits-all
site, into a vein in my chest below the collarbone, near my one and only tattoo.
It will be inserted next week, and I’m
hoping they can place it in the fading Pegasus.
Just under my wings.
More as we go, El
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