Tonight I check back in to the hospital to start round 4 of my chemotherapy treatment. The goal with the early check-in is to get started with the actual treatment first thing Monday morning, and to hopefully wrap up the treatment and be able to check out earlier. Everything takes time at the hospital. Tests need to be run, physicians consulted, orders written, medications delivered from the pharmacy and administered by the nurse, who has several other patients and is incredibly busy.
I've spent most of the past couple of weeks dreading the continuation of this chemotherapy process. Things are going well so far, and the treatment has been very effective. But day to day it is not fun, to say the least. I have been feeling isolated and paralyzed, unable to leave the house or enjoy most of the activities I usually do. More than anything else I think I've just been afraid of being in more pain and discomfort. I know this won't last forever, and I feel confident that I will be able to overcome the cancer. But I've been overwhelmed by these emotions and fears and it's been quite a challenge for me lately.
I was sharing some of these thoughts and feelings with my family the other night. I've always benefitted from being able to talk about things that are bothering me, and I'd been keeping these feelings bottled up. The people around me have enough stress to deal with, and I didn't want to burden them with mine. Also I didn't want others to worry about me, or to doubt my ability to persevere. But I realized I needed to talk about what was bothering me; to have it reflected back to me from someone else's perspective. My dad made a comment about courage. He was referring to the idea that courage is overcoming fear. And something about that comment triggered a shift in my thinking about my current situation. I'd been pitying myself, feeling sorry for myself for being stuck and somewhat incapacitated. I'd been afraid of going back to the hospital, being in more pain and discomfort there, and dealing with the effects of further chemotherapy. I realized that early on in this process I'd responded with courage, certainly more than I had been demonstrating lately. And I remembered that one of the most important factors in overcoming cancer is having a positive attitude; responding to the fear and the challenge with courage and determination. Somehow I was able to get back to that place of strength during that conversation. And since then I've been able to settle into that place, to remain determined to face and overcome the fears that come up, rather consistently, in this experience.
It's not easy, as I expressed in my last post. But it's not supposed to be. As we all know, life is full of challenges. Cancer seems to be one of the more challenging things people go through. But there are many many people who deal with cancer, and there are many who survive and thrive having dealt with it. In my experience, through what I've heard and read from those survivors, they are often much better for it. Such is the nature of challenging experiences in life. They provoke the most growth, the most learning. And therefore, in my opinion, they are to be embraced. Recoiling in fear from the prospect of continuing chemotherapy is the opposite of embracing this challenge. I'm not trying to chastise myself, but to remind myself to turn towards what scares me. To embrace the challenge before me. It's the most effective way to learn from it. And it's definitely the most effective way to move through the challenge successfully. In the case of cancer, where one's life hangs in the balance, success is an important outcome.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
No Cakewalk
I just got home from the hospital where I spent the night getting three units of blood. I went in yesterday because I had been feeling really weak and tired and had some mild symptoms of infection that my doctor wanted me to get checked out. So I had some blood tests and they found that I was anemic so the doc ordered a blood transfusion. Unfortunately everything takes an extremely long time at the hospital so I had to stay overnight. All this just when I thought I had made it through this stretch without having to go back to the hospital. Something about this short stay was tough for me to take emotionally. I really wanted to spend this time at home. And although I am back home quickly, the day I spent there dragged on for a long time.
When having cancer and having to go through chemotherapy treatments becomes really challenging for me I find myself thinking things like, 'I just want this to be over', or, 'I don't want to do this any more', or, 'I just want my life back'. It's an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and despair. I don't spend the majority of my days feeling this way by any means, but there's no question that it comes up. The same way I have good and bad days physically I have them emotionally as well.
And the thing that makes it even harder is that I don't want to feel that way. It doesn't feel good. So I'm feeling bad, and then feeling bad about feeling bad. Today has been one of those days. Sitting around the hospital all day just waiting to be sent home, it is pretty easy to feel depressed. It really helps to be back home. But I still have the daunting weeks of chemotherapy ahead. And sometimes, like today, I just want it to be over already!
The way that I feel physically scares me as well. I have no idea what's going on inside my body. And I don't like having to take medication to deal with the discomfort. It's easy to worry about what's happening and what's going to happen. I suppose I just want to convey to you how challenging this really is. It's terrifying and depressing and exhausting and painful.
Now, I know there's a light at the end of the tunnel. And I can see it, I assure you. There are plenty of moments in which I feel positive and optimistic, as I've shared. I don't want to worry anybody or to give the impression that I'm doing badly. On the whole I am definitely doing really well, considering. It is good, however, to get these feelings off my chest. It helps to express them, even in writing. It helps to know that there are people who I can share these things with who will listen and support me. And honestly it helps to put these things in front of me and to cry or to just feel sad or whatever comes up. Because I have a tendency to ignore it when I feel bad. Who wants to feel bad, after all. And there's the issue of pride. I don't want people to think that I'm weak spirited. I don't want people to fuss over me. But once I get over the pride and just open up, I realize that it takes courage to do so, and that it really helps when people give me support. It's a matter of facing fear. I'm afraid of feeling sick, and of continuing to feel sick. I'm afraid that it won't end, or that it won't end when I want or expect it to end. And I'm afraid of how others view me or think of me. Thankfully facing those fears tends to diminish them, if not to eliminate them altogether.
Thank goodness for this opportunity I have to express myself. I can't tell you how therapeutic it is for me. I've always benefitted from being able to work through things 'out loud'. And hey, I'm one day closer to the end of these treatments. One day has passed, and I've learned some things, and I've been given the opportunity to experience that day, even if it wasn't all that fun.
Love to you
Chris
When having cancer and having to go through chemotherapy treatments becomes really challenging for me I find myself thinking things like, 'I just want this to be over', or, 'I don't want to do this any more', or, 'I just want my life back'. It's an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and despair. I don't spend the majority of my days feeling this way by any means, but there's no question that it comes up. The same way I have good and bad days physically I have them emotionally as well.
And the thing that makes it even harder is that I don't want to feel that way. It doesn't feel good. So I'm feeling bad, and then feeling bad about feeling bad. Today has been one of those days. Sitting around the hospital all day just waiting to be sent home, it is pretty easy to feel depressed. It really helps to be back home. But I still have the daunting weeks of chemotherapy ahead. And sometimes, like today, I just want it to be over already!
The way that I feel physically scares me as well. I have no idea what's going on inside my body. And I don't like having to take medication to deal with the discomfort. It's easy to worry about what's happening and what's going to happen. I suppose I just want to convey to you how challenging this really is. It's terrifying and depressing and exhausting and painful.
Now, I know there's a light at the end of the tunnel. And I can see it, I assure you. There are plenty of moments in which I feel positive and optimistic, as I've shared. I don't want to worry anybody or to give the impression that I'm doing badly. On the whole I am definitely doing really well, considering. It is good, however, to get these feelings off my chest. It helps to express them, even in writing. It helps to know that there are people who I can share these things with who will listen and support me. And honestly it helps to put these things in front of me and to cry or to just feel sad or whatever comes up. Because I have a tendency to ignore it when I feel bad. Who wants to feel bad, after all. And there's the issue of pride. I don't want people to think that I'm weak spirited. I don't want people to fuss over me. But once I get over the pride and just open up, I realize that it takes courage to do so, and that it really helps when people give me support. It's a matter of facing fear. I'm afraid of feeling sick, and of continuing to feel sick. I'm afraid that it won't end, or that it won't end when I want or expect it to end. And I'm afraid of how others view me or think of me. Thankfully facing those fears tends to diminish them, if not to eliminate them altogether.
Thank goodness for this opportunity I have to express myself. I can't tell you how therapeutic it is for me. I've always benefitted from being able to work through things 'out loud'. And hey, I'm one day closer to the end of these treatments. One day has passed, and I've learned some things, and I've been given the opportunity to experience that day, even if it wasn't all that fun.
Love to you
Chris
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Army of Love
One of the things I've heard a lot from other people who have had cancer is that I would eventually become really familiar with the pace and the flow of chemotherapy. I would, for example, be able to predict exactly how I would feel on certain days based on what treatments I'd had and when. Well, that is finally starting to happen for me. I realized this week that there is a pattern that I'm becoming very familiar with related to how I feel and when. And that caused me to reflect that it feels like I've been doing this for a really long time now. But in reality, it's only been two months. I'm halfway through the third of eight rounds of treatment. Things are just ramping up.
On the other hand, after the next round of treatment I'll be halfway through. And I've had some really significant positive progress. And I honestly feel really good about where things are with my treatment. It's comforting to know that certain things will affect me in certain ways and to be able to have some kind of idea how I might feel day to day. It still changes every hour, as I've mentioned before, but it's much more predictable now.
This week I had my fifth of six chemotherapy doses via lumbar puncture. This is a method of administering the drug that enables direct access to the central nervous system. Basically the medicine is injected directly into my lower back so it can get straight to my brain. I've come to find that these treatments seem to have the most extreme and immediate side effects. But I only have one more of those to go!
When I was at the clinic receiving this latest spinal tap I asked my doctor what he thought my day to day life would be like on the maintenance chemotherapy I'll be taking once this six months of intense treatment is over. It varies month to month, but it will be primarily much smaller doses taken orally over the course of about a year and a half. He told me that I would be more or less functioning normally on that treatment. I wasn't completely clear on this before, which is of course why I asked. So it's a huge relief to me to know that I will almost certainly be able to go back to work full time and to get back to a more normal life. Hearing that assessment from him of how things will be was really encouraging to me.
I've had some early positive results with the chemotherapy. I'm becoming more familiar with the ins and outs of my treatment. I am feeling better day to day than I was previously, having figured out which medications work best for me. I know that when I'm through this I will be able to have a normal life again. On top of that I have an incredibly supportive and loving family who are taking care of me. I have the most wonderful, giving friends a person could hope for. And I have this amazing extended network of support comprised of basically everyone who is connected in any way to me or my family. I feel like there is an army of love at my back.
Considering where I was two months ago, things are going remarkably well. And being able to know that, and feel that, and let that be the overall flavor of where I'm at emotionally seems to be even that much more healing and positive for me. Also, for the first time now I seem to be making it through a critical period of diminished immune capability without having to go to the hospital. This is the period of time they refer to as the nadir during which my white blood cell counts are really low and I'm vulnerable to infection. It happens during each round several days after I receive the most intense treatment. When I was at this point during round two I ended up getting a fever and having to go to the emergency room, and then stayed in the hospital for five or six days. So being able to weather the same storm at home is really nice.
The best thing about all this is that I know I will make it through this. I don't know what will happen down the road. But I absolutely know that I will make it through chemotherapy. That is an amazing feeling. As scary and unpleasant and daunting as all of this can be, it's going to be ok. I will make it!
On the other hand, after the next round of treatment I'll be halfway through. And I've had some really significant positive progress. And I honestly feel really good about where things are with my treatment. It's comforting to know that certain things will affect me in certain ways and to be able to have some kind of idea how I might feel day to day. It still changes every hour, as I've mentioned before, but it's much more predictable now.
This week I had my fifth of six chemotherapy doses via lumbar puncture. This is a method of administering the drug that enables direct access to the central nervous system. Basically the medicine is injected directly into my lower back so it can get straight to my brain. I've come to find that these treatments seem to have the most extreme and immediate side effects. But I only have one more of those to go!
When I was at the clinic receiving this latest spinal tap I asked my doctor what he thought my day to day life would be like on the maintenance chemotherapy I'll be taking once this six months of intense treatment is over. It varies month to month, but it will be primarily much smaller doses taken orally over the course of about a year and a half. He told me that I would be more or less functioning normally on that treatment. I wasn't completely clear on this before, which is of course why I asked. So it's a huge relief to me to know that I will almost certainly be able to go back to work full time and to get back to a more normal life. Hearing that assessment from him of how things will be was really encouraging to me.
I've had some early positive results with the chemotherapy. I'm becoming more familiar with the ins and outs of my treatment. I am feeling better day to day than I was previously, having figured out which medications work best for me. I know that when I'm through this I will be able to have a normal life again. On top of that I have an incredibly supportive and loving family who are taking care of me. I have the most wonderful, giving friends a person could hope for. And I have this amazing extended network of support comprised of basically everyone who is connected in any way to me or my family. I feel like there is an army of love at my back.
Considering where I was two months ago, things are going remarkably well. And being able to know that, and feel that, and let that be the overall flavor of where I'm at emotionally seems to be even that much more healing and positive for me. Also, for the first time now I seem to be making it through a critical period of diminished immune capability without having to go to the hospital. This is the period of time they refer to as the nadir during which my white blood cell counts are really low and I'm vulnerable to infection. It happens during each round several days after I receive the most intense treatment. When I was at this point during round two I ended up getting a fever and having to go to the emergency room, and then stayed in the hospital for five or six days. So being able to weather the same storm at home is really nice.
The best thing about all this is that I know I will make it through this. I don't know what will happen down the road. But I absolutely know that I will make it through chemotherapy. That is an amazing feeling. As scary and unpleasant and daunting as all of this can be, it's going to be ok. I will make it!
Friday, August 10, 2012
Round 3 Day 5 and Some Good News
I've been in the hospital receiving my third round of chemotherapy for the past five days. Since they started running the IVs on Monday afternoon I've been on a 24 hour drip the entire time I've been here. As I mentioned before this is my first experience with this version of my regimen that isn't distracted by me being intubated or recovering from other procedures, so it's my first unadulterated exposure to these drugs. It's been an intense round of treatment so far. I can tell by how I feel that the medication I'm receiving is really strong. Originally it looked like I may get out of here this afternoon. Now it may be tomorrow afternoon. But either way progress is being made and I'm happy to be moving along. Then I'll get to go home again and really rest.
Yesterday morning I had my second CT scan since being diagnosed back in June. The first scan was performed the day I checked into the hospital. It revealed the mass in my upper left chest and it showed how it had grown around my trachea, restricting my ability to breath. Shortness of breath was the number one issue I was having that lead me to go to the doctor in the first place. And it was pretty bad. When the doctors saw that first CT they were extremely alarmed. In fact, they were surprised I was even able to walk around and function as I had been. They rushed me into surgery to biopsy the mass and get a diagnosis so they could start treatment immediately. I had no time to react really. It was like being unexpectedly tossed into a raging white water current. Thankfully, it turns out I had a life jacket on.
I was wheeled down to Interventional Radiology yesterday morning for the second scan around 8am, but it was mid afternoon before I had a visit from a doctor who was able to share the results with me. She showed me the scan itself and the radiologist's report describing their findings and comparing them to the first scan. The second scan showed none of the mass that had been so apparent in the first scan. My trachea is no longer obstructed. There is no fluid around my heart or lungs as there had been when I first came in. And there is very little visual evidence of any remaining cancer whatsoever. In other words, the scan could hardly look much better!
This is amazing and encouraging news. It means that the treatment I've received so far has been very effective. It's important to keep in mind that it's very early on in this process. The original plan for my treatment included six months of high dose IV chemotherapy followed by about a year and a half of maintenance therapy. I'm not sure if this progress will change the course of my treatment or not. I don't have any idea whether things will look the same or better or worse in a month or six or a year. But I will admit that I felt optimistic before this scan was performed that it would show positive results based simply on the fact that I can breath normally again, and am feeling in better condition in many ways now than I did when I went to the hospital the first time (chemo side effects aside). So it wasn't a surprise to me to find out this good news, but it was certainly a huge boost emotionally. I've received a ton of encouragement, 'you can do this' type of messages. But there is something really concrete about this that has helped me shift into an even more positive place. I know that a full recovery is truly possible, and may even be likely now. And I'm really really really happy to be able to share this news with you.
Here's a little medical mumbo jumbo from the radiologist's report that confirms the positive findings:
1. Only minimal residual thickening of soft tissues in the anterior mediastinum and aortic-pulmonic window remaining fromt he bulky adenopathy that was present on the prior study in these areas.
2. Wide patency of the tracheobronchial system is now present.
3. No residual disease in the chest, abdomen, or pelvis.
This means that the tumor is largely gone, my airway is clear, they can't see any further cancer throughout my torso.
This is just a preliminary result. But it's an extremely good one, much better than could be expected. And every person on staff here at the hospital who I've talked to about it has confirmed their excitement about how things look. My nurse last night told me the CT results made his day. Thank you to all of you for continuing to support me, and for being so encouraging along the way. Staying positive, believing that I can overcome this and that I will, those are hugely important factors here and you have all made a significant contribution to my ability to do just that.
Love you all,
Chris
Friday, August 3, 2012
Rest Week
It's a roller coaster ride. One of the old wooden ones that makes that distinctive clackity clack sound that's scary and sort of satisfying at the same time. I'm strapped in, but don't feel completely secure, like if the coaster moved the right way I could just fly right out of my seat. And I'm definitely not in control of my destiny for the near future. I'm along for the ride, and I'm pretty sure I didn't want to get on this one in the first place. Too bad I can't blame it on peer pressure or machismo. And oh man, I'm already queasy and the ride is just getting started!
There are moments when this ride is thrilling. It's a constant process of discovery, of rebirth and redefining. There are moments that are flat out terrifying. I don't need to go too deeply into the details of that. But let's just say that in theory I'm not afraid of death. Once you die, well you don't have much to worry about. But I sure am afraid of the consequences for the people I love. I'm afraid of missing out. I am missing out, actually. But I'm really just afraid that I won't get back to where I can be a normal functioning person again.
Those fears are real. And I think it's important for me to acknowledge them. Not to try to hide from them. Part of dealing with this reality I'm living in is being realistic about it. The seriousness of what I have. The ways in which it's affecting my life now, and in the future. It's important to bring those things out and to look at them. From there I can confront and feel and process and move through them. I can go through the experience of being afraid, and I can find out that it's just a feeling. When I open my eyes I'm sitting right here. I'm a living breathing person and my life continues on just like yesterday, just like six months ago.
Right now I feel like I'm in a holding pattern. I'm waiting this thing out. I have a course of treatments that I need to complete, and while I'm in it I can't really escape back out of it. But at the same time it's moving forward quickly. I'm a quarter of the way through the six months of heavy chemotherapy. What I'm dying to know is how it will be after that. Will I regain full functionality? Will I be able to go back to work? I desperately want to be able to do that. To return to my life.
And the reason I'm so excited to get there is that I feel this huge potential. The change in perspective I've had feels inspiring to me. Like I just bought a new toy and I can't wait to try it out. In some cases that is literally true. I bought a new climbing rope this spring and I haven't used it yet, not even once. So, there's this anticipation, this building momentum that I'm feeling. And I think it's a good thing. It is helping to fuel my desire to be healthy again.
Monday I head back to St. Anthony's in Lakewood to start my third round of chemotherapy treatments. This will be yet another new experience. This third round is the same set of drugs as the first round, but the first round was complicated by the surgery I had to biopsy the cancer and the fact that I was still intubated when they started treatment. So I was recovering from surgery and had tubes in my chest and various other things. This will be the first 'normal' round with this regimen. Adventure on.
It's been a productive rest week. I've learned a lot about what works and what doesn't. What I need and what I don't. I'm starting to settle into the routine of chemotherapy. Don't worry though, I don't think it's possible to get too comfortable with this routine.
There are moments when this ride is thrilling. It's a constant process of discovery, of rebirth and redefining. There are moments that are flat out terrifying. I don't need to go too deeply into the details of that. But let's just say that in theory I'm not afraid of death. Once you die, well you don't have much to worry about. But I sure am afraid of the consequences for the people I love. I'm afraid of missing out. I am missing out, actually. But I'm really just afraid that I won't get back to where I can be a normal functioning person again.
Those fears are real. And I think it's important for me to acknowledge them. Not to try to hide from them. Part of dealing with this reality I'm living in is being realistic about it. The seriousness of what I have. The ways in which it's affecting my life now, and in the future. It's important to bring those things out and to look at them. From there I can confront and feel and process and move through them. I can go through the experience of being afraid, and I can find out that it's just a feeling. When I open my eyes I'm sitting right here. I'm a living breathing person and my life continues on just like yesterday, just like six months ago.
Right now I feel like I'm in a holding pattern. I'm waiting this thing out. I have a course of treatments that I need to complete, and while I'm in it I can't really escape back out of it. But at the same time it's moving forward quickly. I'm a quarter of the way through the six months of heavy chemotherapy. What I'm dying to know is how it will be after that. Will I regain full functionality? Will I be able to go back to work? I desperately want to be able to do that. To return to my life.
And the reason I'm so excited to get there is that I feel this huge potential. The change in perspective I've had feels inspiring to me. Like I just bought a new toy and I can't wait to try it out. In some cases that is literally true. I bought a new climbing rope this spring and I haven't used it yet, not even once. So, there's this anticipation, this building momentum that I'm feeling. And I think it's a good thing. It is helping to fuel my desire to be healthy again.
Monday I head back to St. Anthony's in Lakewood to start my third round of chemotherapy treatments. This will be yet another new experience. This third round is the same set of drugs as the first round, but the first round was complicated by the surgery I had to biopsy the cancer and the fact that I was still intubated when they started treatment. So I was recovering from surgery and had tubes in my chest and various other things. This will be the first 'normal' round with this regimen. Adventure on.
It's been a productive rest week. I've learned a lot about what works and what doesn't. What I need and what I don't. I'm starting to settle into the routine of chemotherapy. Don't worry though, I don't think it's possible to get too comfortable with this routine.
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