(Especially those of you who continue to ask to come for a daytime visit)—though I truly wish to spend time with each of you, it’s not in the cards for, right now. The treatment to shrink the tumor (as well as our trips to Houston, every six weeks, readying me for this rare surgical procedure, ahead), proves so demanding of my energy that my decision to direct all of my fuel toward healing proves, more often than not, to be more than I can handle, over these next several months. More than I can handle? Why?
As chemo brain is a real thing, this morning, while dressing to leave for Mayo, it took three tries before I matched a simple red sweater to a silver turtleneck, to red and gray socks and red loafers, over jeans—why three tries? Because I, being anemic, was so light headed as to need to lay down, thrice.
It’s as if family and our closest friends, who have held our hands along every step of this rock strewn path, have accompanied us into a foreign land, filled with so many medical specialists, PA’s, nurses, clinics, labs and hospitalizations (which I barely remember, having been so deeply sedated as to withstand the medications necessary to combat a slew of infections (inclusive of thrush and mucocitis), which had planned a sneak attack on several flanks, once my white blood cell count had plummeted to 0.01).
In short, the intensity of my first round of chemo (24/7) required two blood transfusions as well as draining my chest cavity of 1000 cc’s of fluid, twice, in hopes that my collapsed lung would rally, which it did. In addition to tests concerning blood levels and kidney functions, twice weekly, I undergo PET scans, 3D cardio MRI’s, echo cardio grams, and thoracic CT’s—less often but regularly.
Though positive focus encourages my psyche to back off from detailing or swapping chemo horror stories, each of which proves highly personal in nature, the fact that I reflect quietly over how my experience may differ significantly from that of others offers me sound reason to curtail making misjudgments so as to embrace a greater sense of objectivity, so if anyone catches me comparing apples to prunes that person is me ... you see, just as one person’s heart attack is not like another’s, the same is true of tumors as well as individualized protocols and reactions to chemo, of which many varieties exist.
In the first place, I continue to give thanks to the miracles of modern medicine for engineering the life saving properties of a variety of chemotherapies, followed by knowing which combination of meds to pump into me when my organ systems got so drunk on 5 days of chemo that they fell down and couldn’t get up on their own until, over the course of eleven, tension-filled days, the expertise of medical specialists, aided by a well trained nursing staff, held out a walker or wheel chair or basket to help me get from here to there, where additional tests took place in the hospital until I could manage to be home, but not on my own, where my heart, mind and spirit felt sound reason to overflow with gratefulness as Will and my family and friends held fast to my safety net each time my body and spirit had need of compassion while facing up to heightened degrees of distress.
Recently, I was told by my oncologist in Houston that at MD Anderson the intensity of the chemo I absorbed is no longer infused into anyone over 65–and as I’d just turned 76, treatment absorbed in the renown clinic near our home must have impacted my body more harshly than my doctors, here, had expected. So, perhaps, my support system is on target when they stand in solidarity to express their belief that warrior genes exist deep within my core, after all.
After listening to a change in chemo protocol in Houston, I found myself (for the first time ever) rejoicing over hearing myself referenced as an oldster by someone younger, who had not yet become a card carrying owner of anything having to do with AARP or Medicare.
In fact, I’m finally passed feeling shocked upon opening my wallet to see that specific card staring back at me sporting my name. Of course, I have reason to place that card into the hands of medical staff so often, it no longer feels like a hot potato—in fact, I’m cool with being (but not feeling) old. Aaa to those of us who are so fortunate as to experience all four stages of life, I’ve enjoyed so much during each stage of my own as to reflect over how often, I’d actually felt thrilled. And having experienced great joy and sadness, call me greedy if I’m hoping for lots more of the former and less of the latter as the future unfolds.
As for now, in addition to having absorbed my second round of chemo, last week, my body’s still regaining lost strength from the first infusion, which proved much too aggressive for my age, and not until this tired body, which takes me every place I long to go, has fully re-fueled do I plan to participate in anything other than re-energizing whatever proves necessary to withstand and then recover from the dual surgery ahead, as in—Annie, train your eye on your goal. (This week, I resumed ‘working out’ with my trainer, who, over these past twenty years has become a dear friend).
With time and superlative support systems on my side as well as faith in my surgeon’s expertise, I entrust myself to do everything within the months ahead to empower my mind and body with as much strength of spirit as can be mustered until I receive the high sign that it’s time to sedate me, open me up, clean me out and, hopefully, sew me up so that upon awakening with plenty of time ahead to celebrate my recovery with friends and family, guess who is planning to feel thrilled to embrace life anew!
And having outlined my plan, dear friends, feel me hugging your hearts close to mine and know that while hibernating during cold and flu season, I’m missing you unless we luck out and run into each other on one of the rare occasions when I choose to venture out of my ‘castle haven’—quoting Princess Ravi.
❤️🌈🌻🙋🏻♀️Annie/Rocky/Hilda Goopie//Hallmark/Goobers
PS. Hooray for the one person, so far, who remembers why my husband is referenced as Will and our youngest son as David! The winner is Sherry Schwartz Simon, a beloved high school
friend. As to Sherry’s prize for answering the riddle, which I sent out in an email to tickle the inquisitive nature of beloved family and treasured friends—well, she already owns it. What is it?—A better memory inside her head than most of us, past seventy, can boast as being our own!
FYI—Sherry occasionally continues to address me as—guess who? (With one glance up at my signature, which follows the emojis seen within this post, my high school nickname is bound to leap off the screen into your lap ...
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