Dive-Bombed by a Hummingbird

I’m a bit late getting this out due to the clutter on my desk and in my brain.  I just realized it’s SEPTEMBER already, and time speeds on. The sun is out.  The mountain is out (though it looks like we’ll get rained on all holiday weekend).  And I’m waiting for the handyman to come back to finish up the jobs he started earlier today.

The Popsicle Report:   Blueberry-lemon!  On a stick. I wish I knew what brand it was because I’d sure buy these.  Despite what it sounds like, it was quite tasty.

Chemo round #8 down — a third of the way through the whole chemotherapy treatment. Four more of the Adriamycin infusions and then I switch to the Taxol for 12 weeks.  I saw my regular doc, who thinks things are going along OK.  The white cell count is up again (4.5 from last week’s 4.0), so he says I can back off the Neupogen shot to once a week.  The schedule of shots is not an exact science, but becomes whatever suits the individual patient. Fortunately I didn’t have any bone pain after the shots this past week, and the mouth sores are gone.  The red cell count is low, but not yet in need of bolstering.  It does indicate anemia, though, which leads to fatigue.  I have sporadic bouts of fatigue, but nothing incapacitating — more a sleepiness than a body-tiredness. I’m also a bit irritable, but I think that’s because it’s time for my kids to get back to school (next week!).  They’ve become rather like ferrets — all over everything, full of noise and wrangling.

I also saw the naturopath last week. No changes to his plan, except he’d like me to gain a couple pounds of “reserve” weight. (“Let’s see if we can get you into triple digits!”)  He recommended eating protein, good carbohydrates (I could easily gain pounds with just a couple doughnuts!), and “good” fats — for example, nuts, avocados, and olive oil.  Jokingly, I asked if I should just chug the oil out of the bottle.  He said (with a straight face), “Well you could, but you could also do shots.”

Imagine THAT experience.

Apparently he did shots of the stuff once when he had to gain weight for a sports team. I suppose it’s no worse than Sylvester Stallone chugging raw eggs in the first Rocky movie.

Yesterday, I treated myself to an oncology massage. With all of the events over the summer, I’ve been feeling rather like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz after the flying monkeys get to him.  (“They tore out my chest and they threw it over there…”)  Mammogram, MRI, ultrasound, two biopsies, CT, bone scan, PET scan, two surgeries, physical therapy, chemotherapy (and radiation to come).  I figured I deserved it.  The oncology massage is similar to a regular massage, but lighter, and the therapist incorporated some reflexology (massage of the feet) and Reiki, a sort of laying-on of hands to open energy channels in the body (an Eastern practice).  The downside was that she had to wear gloves.  Apparently there can be some skin-to-skin transfer of the Cytoxan, the other cancer drug that I take orally every day.

A couple interesting “side-effects” of the chemo that I haven’t seen mentioned in all the information I’ve been given:

One day last week, I was standing out on the back deck talking with someone on the phone when I heard a loud buzzing and looked up to see a hummingbird hovering only a few inches from my face.  My startled movement scared it off, but later that same day, it happened again.  Loud buzzing.  Fat little bird body within inches of my face. Bold little bugger, I thought.

And then I realized — the scarf I was wearing had a large red flower on it.  He had me figured for food.

The other “side effect” occurred at the gas station.  I was waiting in line to pull up to a pump and noticed the car to my right, which was also waiting and had just stalled.  The woman driving started cranking the ignition, trying to restart the car, and while I watched, I noticed the telltale headscarf tucked neatly and completely down over her ears and the nape of  her neck.  I put down the passenger-side window and asked her if she needed help. (No way should someone have to deal with cancer, chemo AND a stalled car.  That’s just not fair.)  She thanked me but said no, that the car would start in a few minutes, and sure enough, it did.

We both rolled up to our respective pumps, and while we were waiting for the tanks to fill, she came over to me and asked if she could assume that my headscarf meant the same thing as hers — going through chemo.  I told her yes, I was going once a week and she said, “Oh, yours must be breast cancer.”  I puzzled over how she put those pieces together (maybe breast cancer is the only once-a-week regimen?), and she said she’d just finished chemo.  “Mine’s ovarian,” she said. “I’ll trade ya!”

Fortunately, I long ago developed the ability to disconnect what my brain thinks from what my mouth says at critical moments like these.  My brain said, “No way!” while my mouth changed the subject. You see, there’s a continuum of cancer. On one end are the noninvasive ones that grow slowly, can be removed easily and never return.  On the other end are ones that give little notice, grow swiftly, can’t be detected early, or are relentless, like the brain tumor that just claimed Ted Kennedy’s life.  Breast cancer has the same   stages as other types of cancer (I to IV), and even a Stage O.  Sometimes it is detected early, sometimes not, sometimes it’s aggressive, sometimes not. Ovarian cancer, on the other hand, can be fairly aggressive and is often not detected until it’s advanced, and so the fact that this woman could joke in such a way with me at the gas pump was a remarkable testament of her spirit.

When I changed the subject, we talked about wigs, insurance, and skirted across a number of other health-related topics.  She said that she knew of a number of people (“like you,” she said) who had followed all of the rules of staying in good health and ended up with cancer anyway.  As I drove away, I was both happy and horrified.  Happy that I could bond with someone just on the basis of a headscarf.  Horrified that I could bond with someone over the reason for the scarves. They mark our inclusion in a group neither of us wants to belong to.

An odd and unpredictable journey.  That’s what this is.

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