Trash barrels to the curb

I need to confess I had this delusion that I could continue to regain my energy between chemotherapy sessions. I did pull it off after the first four sessions, but now, after seven sessions, I feel like a shell of myself. I don’t think it’s possible to avoid chemo- exhaustion; you can’t block the inevitable; the effects of chemotherapy are cumulative.

A good lesson I’ve learned in recovery is to stay in the moment, be present as much as possible all the time; (don’t project into the future).  But now, when it takes me an hour to take the trash barrels out to the curb, I find a revert frequently to a haunting question (which is fear of the future): I will probably survive, but what if I never regain my strength or energy?

I go around daily with severe fatigue and shortness of breath. Bad sleep. I was seen this week at the oncology urgent care clinic, and they found I had a pulmonary embolus (PE) in my right lower lobe.  Somehow, the radiologist could report that there is no strain on my right ventricle, which means the PE is mild. Add an anti-coagulant pill and press on.

I have chemo brain fog as well; I am thankful that I’m retired and there is time to think slow.  My 12th and last chemo session is July 10th. Diane is probably going to have to bring me to the seventh floor at Fred Hutch in a wheelchair, but I hope it’s not on a gurney. The infusion nurses are all very competent and cheerful; next week I’m going to bluntly ask them to level with me about my probable condition over the next two months.

I started this blog to stay in touch with my friends. While all of this negativity is real, I also know it is temporary. Sharing and being vulnerable isn’t easy; hiding reality is even more difficult. Thank you for sharing my journey; I value each and every one of you.

Her name is Mabel; her name is a derivation from one my chemo drugs (nivolumab) as concocted by my chemo RN’s; she is my chemotherapy teddy bear gift from Diane. She optimistically goes to every session.