Buzzed: Cycle 1, Day 3

Constant Reader, this post is produced immediately on the heels of the previous post. I did not want to lose what little inertia I have.

The end of this post is unedited. I wrote about the sensation of chemotherapy in real-time. At least as I experienced it tonight.

Cycle 1. Day 3
Word of the day: Buzzed!

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Awake and ate an apple to start day. Few symptoms so far. Never had more than an hour of sleep last night, due to all the infusions and checks they needed to do.
I'll catch up on sleep after shift change shenanigans.
So far, so good. We're in front of the nausea with the meds.
Here's planning for another good day!

So I got up and made my bed and made my toilet and performed my morning routine. I redecorated my room, moving the dresser from there to here and re-stacking my books. Constructive stuff.

The hours surrounding the shift change are like Manhattan rush hour. People move in all directions, conversatations bounce off one another like crazy balls in a refrigerator, and so much gets done that its amazing there is anything left to do for the remainder of the day.

I was much-visited—it being the moring after my first "real" chemo.

And to the delight of one and all, everything was good! I had no symptoms of anything, other than exhaustion.

Huzzah!

I was a little stooopid, but not delierously so. It was a good morning!

Once things settled, I focused on a nap. Two hours. That's all I wanted. Two hours of sweet sleep.

So, I did something I had not done before...I closed my room door and pulled the curtain.

And I slept.

I got up after two hours (had to pee, had to check on my pee, must evacuate my pee, my pee...was brown...shit!).

I made the bed again and resolved to drink like a fool.

As I sipped, I snarfed.

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When I think of Ray Whitney I often think of Calvin - from Calvin & Hobbs. I am not sure if its the hair (Floppy!) or his sense of adventure. However, this morning this is how I am thinking of Ray - standing strong, showing the world he is ready to take it on! He's got this!

I responded thusly.

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Ladies, try not to swoon!

I was up and buzzing. I felt good (though stooopid), and my body was sending me weird, aggressive, caffeinated signals—without the benefit of my having consumed any caffeine.

I put on some music and shared my vibe with the world.

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I'm awake. Here's the song I'm waking up to this fine day! Yep, I just need a disco ball to accompany it and liven up the oncology ward!

I got a call from Mom. She would be visiting pretty soon. Cool! Company! And I'm feeling GREAT!

I spoke to Nurse Ashley, hoping that the doctors would let me walk around the hospital. I knew my blood counts had not yet been affected by the meds, I felt strong, and I was vibrating with energy. No sleep and steroids seem to like one another.

She left. She returned. I had a hall pass!

Out of the Blue

Some day I'll have the energy to revisit this section and flesh out the how and why this affected me.

In its simplest terms, I received an email from a professional cyclist I have long admired.

It was a short note.

Hey Ray,

Here's to a strong and full recovery! Hope to buoy your spirits and that you're going to be ready for the Krempels King of the Road Challenge 2014.

All the best,

Ted King

I know that means nothing to most of you. I know it seems small.

But this isn't about you.

It meant a lot to me. First, the same friend who sent the Calvin and Hobbes image contacted Ted. He knows him. Second, Ted took the time to send a message to someone he had never met.

And embedded in his response was a goal, a concrete milestone.

Realistic is irrelevant. It's a goal.

I sent him a response, thanking him, telling him I appreciate his tenacity as an athlete, and wishing him well for next year. Ted crashed early in Le Tour de France this year, and the story of his fight to stay in the race gives me the warm shivers.


I told him about the hallway and the steps.

Here's to a full 22 laps and to July 2014! Yup, one step at a time, one pedal stroke at a time.

All my best Ray,

Ted

His July is the Tour. Mine is to be well and go to Squirrel Island in Maine. It's many days and many miles away, yet July has become a milestone.

Many thanks, Peter.

Many thanks, Ted.

Freedom!

Mom arrived. An adventure would begin!

Mom knows this hospital. She had more than a few procedures here, including chemotherapy for lymphoma. She got to play tour guide and show me some of the sights.

Mom shuffled her shuffle steps. I padded about in my yoga pants, a t-shirt, and a wool vest (looking for all the world like I just crawled out after a hard night in a laundry bin). We walked the hospital.

Oh, the sights we did see! A gift store (Don't blink, you'll miss the door!). The coffee shop (your Dad would be there at 0559 every morning with his nose pressed to the door!). The secret staircase that led (This garbage wasn't here last time!).

It was fun.

And I was woozy.

Stooopid I felt, but I still had the buzz.We got to our destination—a food emporium called "Epicurian"—and I began to select my lunch. After serious, mind-numbing, soul-torturing consideration, I worked around the salad bar and found myself choosing odd combinations of things. To any normal person, it would have looked normal. But I have deep-rooted, well-developed habits in the salad arena. This was not that.

I had something of everything green. I went for vinegary things. I went for garlicky things. I got a pile of cous cous...just because. Mom suggested a soup. I looked. I opened the chicken noodle soup and had two, simultaneous reactions. One was that it was a hugely-chickened soup with many lovely noodles. Heartiness defined. The other was that the noodles looked like death incarnate. I was repulsed.

I don't know where any of that came from, but I remembered that I wanted to record it here.

I looked at the other soups, and was dazzled by the brilliant crimson of the tomato basil.

So I got a bowl.

And we went to our table.

And I ate.

And I proceeded to eat thusly.

I would take a spoon or forkfull of whatever part of the salad I was working on, and I put it in my soup. I stirred it about. And I ate it.

And it was good.

And it was bizarre.

And I ate it all that way.

And I was happy.


We walked back to the hospital, and while Mom attended to a Mom thing, I checked my messages. There was an email from a friend. She had stopped by for a quick visit, and missed me!

AAARRRRuuuGGGGHHH!

I knew she was planning to visit, but I didn't know when! Poop!

So, we rushed back to the room—just in case—and I found an apple and a CD on the bed.

She left me gifts!

And on my white board, she left a message.

And unknowingly, she got me back for my "how many laps is a mile" shenanigan.

You see, this young lady speaks and writes Chinese.

And the message...is in Chinese.

And she won't tell me what it says.

Zing!

It was a good day.

Feeling Good

Mom left, and I was left to my own devices—my laptop, my ipad, my phone.

It was a super-social day. I spent a lot of time reading and messaging and...connecting.

That was what mattered. Connecting.

My buzz remained, but I was slowing.

A few more phone calls.

Settling down.

Readying.

Round Two was about to begin.

Try This

Dear Reader, do sit quietly for a moment. Imagine it is a warm day. You're thirsty, but not parched. In front of you is a tall, cool glass of something delicious.

Reach out for it.

Touch the glass. Feel the cool. Savor the condensation that dances on your fingertips.

Pick it up.

Drink it.

Feel the cold flow down your throat and into your warm belly. Sense the liquids mix and swirl.

Refreshed?

Chemotherapy is not like that.

Oh, you get the cool sensation thing. And you get the flowy thing. And you definitely feel it hit your stomach.

But "refreshing" ain't in it.

It's more like devastating.

Now's a good time to remind ourselves of a few very important facts. Chemotherapy is poison. Chemotherapy is bringing you close to death, so you may live.

And I'm taking my first steps.

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I'm fighting it now. First major side-effect...the worst hiccups of my life (combined with acid reflux from hell). Doesn't sound like it would be bad, right?
Wrong. It's awful.
But I was able to get this done in the middle of it. Staying focused...

I spent the next several hours writing. I'm writing this now on the tail-end of it.

I've never experienced anything quite like that.

My stomach was never nauseous, but the hiccup spasms were so strong that they were productive. Worse, it was all acid. Worse, still, the acid was rising in my throat, triggering me to vomit.

Not. Good.

Nurse Carol was my guide. A few phone calls, a few meds, and a long, long number of seconds later, my stomach finally becalmed.

No vomit.

Lots of sweat.

's OK.

Goodnight

I sign off this post oddly.

I don't know what will happen overnight. At the moment, I am receiving the tail end of my cisplatin  for the evening. I have several secondary medications on their way, but in a few minutes I should be able to secure some sleep.

Sleep, please let me sleep.

In this telling of it, I am leaving a lot out of this day. Some of you know that. I will get to those other things in time. I only have so much in me.

I believe I am on the threshold of something here. I believe tonight and tomorrow will be my crossing over into...something.

I feel the drugs in me. I feel them accumulating. I feel their effects. It's happening.

It's real.

I'm not scared. I'm uncomfortable. My focus is becoming animal—that which reduces pain and discomfort is my friend. All else is nothing.

I wrote that last sentence as I gagged on a belch that was most unnatural.

I smell funny. Like medications, not sweat.

My scent and taste are morphing as I sit here.

Platinum is circulating in me. It warms, a little. It burns my throat. My nose is running.

This is real time not edited.

I feel my gums warm, particularly near my rear molars. Warm, then recede, Warm, then recede. My heart feels like it's being bathed under a warm flow of tub water. The platinum warms. And it burns.

It circles up to my throat again, gagging me. Worst acid reflux ever.

And deep in my ears things feel warm, too.

There's an apple in my throat, deep. Uncomfortable. Choking me.

I sip some water. It does nothing. It lands in my stomach like a cold stone and sits there, lumpily. Then it wells up. And the apple chokes me again.


I have to pee. But I'm a little...off. My legs feel like balloons. I'm swelling, and its pooling in my thighs.


Whose body is this?

I'm going to try to sleep now.

I hope it goes well.

Please know that I deeply appreciate all your messages. I appreciate all of your wishes.

It matters.

And as I cross that threshold, I carry you with me.

Respect. Thanks.

What will be will be what will be.
I've got this.