I now have a wife who has both a husband and a cat with cancer.
I’ve noticed that she shows her affections using the same words and
gestures one way with her sick cat Comet, and different ways with me.
Wait. That’s not true. They are the same differences.
Every life story has (or should have) animal elements, preferably
where simple visuals define all of that story’s easiest and hardest of times.
Like this one with Diane.
Or, this one: another cat reclining on the front porch:
contemplative, reconciled, lying outside a normal door used for this life’s normal
comings and goings.
But, handy
nearby, there’s also an urgent, makeshift abnormal door clawed and pushed
through a screen, for use when that easy, formal normal door just won’t
suffice.
It’s a
portal that now lets the good in and out along with the bad (more on this soon).
Plan A. Plan
B. Done.
(Dog people
may substitute their comparable pooch pics here)
Follow-up today at the infusion unit for first bloodwork
since my last first new chemo treatment (see Day Sixty-Two).
After chasing my dehydrated rolling vein for a puncture or
two, we got a successful draw. Then, it was wait for results and a visit with my
reviewing oncologist.
Time to pass the time with crosswords, practicing my
what-me-worry look, and checking my must-say list. As a nurse, I’ve always advised
my patients to make a list of questions, concerns, dirty jokes to tell the
visiting docs, because too often we’ll forget and remember too late what we
wanted to ask them, especially if we’re in high-stakes medical mode (See Day Fifty-One).
As a patient, I do try to listen to myself and today I’ve
written a short list:
--- I’ve lost a few pounds in the days since Day Sixty-Two.
Food has returned to tasting like boiled cardboard, blunting my appetite. You
already know what that spiraling, descending circle of diminishing returns means, so
let’s try to keep it down.
--- I had one entertaining episode of nausea/vomiting on the
third day after my infuse-o-rama. (If you need more description than that,
revisit Day Nine.) I restarted the anti-nausea med, and it's kept my innards in
line. If I heed the signs, I can see me coming and head me off at the preemptive med
pass.
But, the problem is getting stomach and brain to buddy-up
when nausea/vomiting is lurking, even if I can control it. The brain still becomes
an anti-hero and pulls the stomach away from the table.
We may not live by bread alone, but every road trip meal
welcomes a traveling companion for some destinations, even if it is a hitchhiker
with no gas money (I know you expect me to strain a metaphor on occasion. You’re
welcome.)
--- For a few days after Day Sixty-Two, my rashes and
itching subsided drastically, but they’re returning. Itch, scratch, open sore,
rinse, lather, repeat.
--- My “trigger finger” fingers also disappeared for a few
days after treatment, but they’re back as well.
Oncology Doc arrived with the lab results. I read him my
list, and we met minds on the interventions: med for nausea, ointments and
anti-itch med for skin, and postpone my decision for now on whether or not my
claw-fingers will interfere with Harley throttling, clutching and braking.
We then went over the numbers. No terrible news, but one
noteworthy (and expected) change:
“You’re a bit neutropenic,” he points blankly.
“Oh, Doc, you say the sweetest things.”
But, he speaks this way to me knowing my vocational background and the knowledge-is-humor-is-power guy thing I have going on. We’re both at our ease with
doctor/nursey-talk.
My neutrophil count is low. Neutrophils are white blood
cells. They’re essential in helping to fight infection. The drugs I’m taking fight
my cancer but also weaken my defenses. This irony is a bittersweet theme with
cancer and cancer treatment, and in fact is found everywhere in medicine and
its screen door folklore:
It has to
taste bad to be good.
The cure is
worse than the disease.
One woman’s
cat is another man’s cat.
More as we go, El
