Infusion 8

I have six hairs on my left eyebrow and four on my right. I also have an eyelash fiercely clinging to my right upper lid. It's the final one and it looks like a claw. When I asked Jason if he had noticed it, he casually remarked in between bites of food, "Of course and it looks weird."

I'm trying hard to keep that eyelash just so it continues to bug him.

(Just now I asked Jason if he liked my eyelash and I blinked a few times to make him notice. His response: "Don't even do that to me.")

Part of my role as patient is to be a bit bothersome. Jason is a nervous caregiver. For good reason, however, I'm tired of being housebound. I tell him he's locked me in his pumpkin shell. I'm also aware that I need to make sure he doesn't die of a heart attack over this entire ordeal.

Whenever possible, I make Jason leave to blow off steam. He will go off to play pool, play poker or hike at the coast. He splurged on a fabulous dinner and wine pairing at Beaux Freres. I hope he doesn't feel guilty, but I know he does. It's a dance, for sure. His friends--our friends--have been so supportive. One even drove down from Seattle to be with Jason for the first pool night with the guys after Jason had a really bad week. Sometimes we don't feel we deserve all the kindness coming our way. Everyone has so much love to give.

My 8th infusion marked the end of my chemo vacation. I've started to call my treatments, Chemo Spa Days. I'm back in the chair. I'm back to pounding tall glasses of water, peeing four times during the night, changing and laundering the sheets everyday. I'm back to smelling like a stale tuna fish can.

I am so sick of this shit. Onward.

Rejected Again!

Last week I was tuned down again for treatment. My neutrophils are increasing but they weren't at baseline and my oncologist is following protocol. They were so close. Alas, there's nothing we can do but wait. So technically I have neutropenia, still.

Tomorrow, I am assuredly going to be infused and after three weeks of zero treatments, this makes me nervous. The internal vibrations that gave my body a turbulent, unsettled mood have vanished. My nails have stopped aching and I can finally use them to open box lids and peel oranges. When all I could tolerate was silence and books, I can now listen to podcasts and watch movies. A little taste of peace and normalcy has revisited my soul.

Many days ago, Jason and I were on our street close to home after returning from a walk on the trails, when a bat darted across nearly colliding into my chest. I wanted to yell, "Hey, watch where you're flying! Can't you see I'm neutropenic???!!" I'm not sure who was more shocked: Jason (he kept wondering about the threat of rabies and what would have happened had I been bitten), the bat (was it deaf? or was it having fun maneuvering over hills and valleys?) or me (I had never experienced a flying bat up-close before). The way it curved across my chest, only an inch--maybe two--away from my body and then swooped in between us as if toying with slow-moving humans before fluttering upwards in front of Jason's face. It was completely silent. And it's grace was spectacular. I felt that familiar surge of endorphins, and for a moment, I almost felt normal (the treatments keep trying to drain me of everything human).

So, yes, I definitely had a chemo vacation. And like Persephone, I'm not so sure I want to return to underworld. Tomorrow, it begins again. Only 63 more days.