Thursday, January 23rd
It's 35 degrees outside and I slept terrible. Good start. This is my second treatment day with the temperature in the thirties.
If cancer is hell, then I'm pretty sure it's trying to freeze over.
On the bright side, I feel great. For the past three days leading into treatment I've felt... well... normal. Whatever that word means anymore. I haven't had any B Symptoms in two weeks. My fatigue is lessoning, and I actually feel ready to give this another shot.
Apparently, at my last chemo session, I looked absolutely dreadful (or another choice explicative that I won't use in this format). Hell. I looked like hell.
I know this, because every nurse in the building felt the need to point it out to me. Directly. Without mincing words.
"Wow, he looks like a different person."
"Yeah, he looked terrible last time. Pale and Sweaty."
The chemo itself went well. I didn't need a shot for anxiety this time. I remembered it. Which is a plus. I didn't last time.
I must have blacked the first one all out. Just went dark. For an hour or two.
I have no memory of two injections from the first round. Two drug injections where the nurse sits there and manually flushes the syringes for four and ten minutes each. Just dark. And Chemo Brain.
The fog rolled in almost immediately. It sat heavy on my brain. I couldn't remember what I had just been talking about. I slouched more into the chair and just let the drugs melt me into the fabric. Here it comes, uselessness.
There was one difference: self awareness.
I knew. I knew exactly what was happening. What was going to happen. It wasn't me, it was the medication. Just focus. You CAN think. Just wait.
The treatment ended without any excitement or concern. It was just over this time.
I was unplugged. "Have a great day! See you next time."
Four hours later we were able to leave. Using Jedi mind powers we exited through the automatic doors and out into a world full of energy vampires that would scream at me for the next three days.
But I still felt good. Tired, yes. Chemo brain, yes. Terrible headache, yes. But considering the BS I have and have to go through, I felt good. Almost empowered. So, using this sense of power, I bought a cancer T-Shirt and bracelet. The message is powerful. Profound. They are the words everyone is looking for when they talk to me about it. They know it's there, but it's just hard to say.
"Cancer Sucks". Which it does. I agree, so I found them appropriate. You can't say it any better.
Meanwhile, in Between Chemo...
The sickness is rising. It must be the weather. Thank you Texas. 30's one day, 70's the next.
EVERYONE had the sniffles or a cough. And there I was, finally getting over my own cough and symptoms, with moody mother nature, colds, and a white blood cell situation that made me very nervous.
Then (the next Tuesday) my son Clay got pinkeye.
I was immediately quarantined, placed on antibiotics and a steroid eye-drop.
It wasn't terrible though. I spent the next two days with my Dad. Hanging out and watching basketball,
trying to keep my mind off of the fact that my son was in pain and didn't feel good and I couldn't do anything to help.
I couldn't even take my boys to the doctor. My parents had to take them, while Ashley met up with them from work. I sat at home. Useless, because I can't get sick.
Clay was diagnosed with pinkeye and an ear infection, while Colt was treated for possible pnemonia.
I couldn't even take my own children to the doctor, to be there for them. I felt USELESS. So I cried. A lot. Probably the hardest I had since Dr. NotWorthADamn made his appearance.
So again, useless, I hung out with my Dad while Ashley and my Mom took care of my boys. I watched Basketball while they gave medicine and consoled them. They lost sleep with long nights, while I hid in the guest room of my parents house.
Super Dad.
The boys were finally on the mend heading into the weekend, and by Sunday they were having good days. The medicine had run it's course. The worst had passed, right?
Colt had a rough night sleeping that night. He woke screaming several times throughout the night. We couldn't figure out what it was.
He came home from school Monday with pinkeye. Here we go again.
I immediately became nervous. Should I leave? What about Ashley? Who can we call? Help...
The fear was real. The difference this time: there was no running. My mom, who had been a saving grace earlier when the boys were sick, had a cold herself. It was just us, and I couldn't leave. Not again.
No running.
Ashley and I took it on together. And soon, thank you God, Colt's eye seemed to go down and he started feeling better.
The fear of getting sick is too much. Wash your hands. Sanitize. Be careful of door handles and large crowds. Avoid life. If you see it, be careful not to get too close as you watch it go by.
The fear (of sickness). Another side effect of chemotherapy.
Dr. Spivey Was Right
I admittedly (and somewhat shamefully) have been overly obsessed with what my hair looks like since middle school. It has served as some sort of identity to me. I don't know if I let it define me, but I definitely have a strong attachment to it and often would not let anyone touch it.
Vanity.
I have worried for years whether I would fall victim to male pattern baldness as I watched my Dad's hair retreat during my childhood. Will that happen to me?
I was so happy when I realized that I had my Mom's hair gene. I was in my early twenties then, with thick, full hair. I beat it!
My hair started falling out the Saturday immedeately following chemo. It was devastating. And I was ashamed of it.
On Sunday I made the decision to shave it down. Not off. Just down. Just to... soften the blow.
My Dad came over that afternoon with his clippers. We were going to do it together. And they didn't work.
They were broken, but not my spirit.
So, my Dad took me to SuperCuts. And when we drove up and saw that they had closed early on THIS one day to have their store meeting, he turned the car around and drove me to GreatClips. We were going to get this done.
And we did.
The adjustment period is weird. You just don't recognize the person that looks back at you in the mirror. It's jarring at times. But necessary.
The hair is going, and will be gone soon. But the person remains. And though I have to wear more hats and beanies, I have to remember that it's temporary. It's part of the plan.
I'll lose my hair to beat cancer. Easy.
#StrongerThanCancer
Here is my "shaved head".
By the way... today is World Cancer Day. Spread the word. Increase awareness. Find a cure.
Cancer Sucks.
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