Chapter 10: Almost Done With Phase 2

The countdown is on. By the time I post this chapter, I’ll have under five treatments to go. And so far, I’m doing pretty good. My doctors have even told me as much.

And while I have vowed to post real-time blogs in order to better capture the emotions of the day, my daily schedule doesn’t make it possible. In other words, this cancer treatment stuff has been real work. At the end of the day, I am spent, consumed both emotionally and physically. And frankly, there’s been no real emotional rip currents going on to speak of.

The good news is I’m still sleeping upstairs in my bed (instead of downstairs on the couch with my 120lb canine), driving myself to appointments, swallowing, fighting with my brother, and yelling at my dog. Nevertheless, I remain quite mindful of the fact that the effects of radiology as well as chemotherapy are cumulative meaning I’m not out of the woods quite yet. In fact, their effects will live on for a couple weeks after my last treatment. That’s how they are intended to work. But, I strongly sense that if I get through Christmas week with minimal problems, I’ll be home free (knocking on wood…real hard).

Physically, I feel quite strong. I do pushups almost every morning and try to walk my dog a couple miles a day or so. But fatigue is becoming a more frequent visitor. Often, it’s coupled with low hemoglobin numbers. That’s when the problems start. For instance, the fourth day after my last chemo treatment my blood numbers were very low, actually frighteningly low. When these events occur, I need a wheel chair because walking is just too dangerous an activity.

The dynamics are Cisplatin inhibits my bone marrow’s ability to produce red blood cell. As a result, I produce and deliver lower amounts of oxygen to my body’s various organs. The net effect is my body begins shutting down. Scary shit.

Fortunately, my eyes provide me a first warning signal that these instances are about to take place. Everything I see becomes covered in shiny bright obstacles. In fact, things often appear so bright, I can’t make out words in their entirety as I read. Hard to describe but it’s as if words are missing letters; letters I know are there but for all intents and purposes, become invisible. A little like th s. The bottom line is my eyes, as is the case with my other organs, aren’t getting enough oxygen to function.

I’m hoping this problem is in the process of being solved because it truly frightens me. Falling head-first on concrete is an event I can do without for the moment. I’ll never forget how helpless I felt when I basically watched myself fall, face first, on my bed post causing me to bite through my lip. And there was nothing I could do to stop it because I had no control over my body at the time. Fortunately, they make a hemoglobin testing machine, much like a diabetic tester. I ordered one from over-seas and it arrived just a day or two ago. Now with a single drop of blood onto a test strip, I can tell my levels within fifteen seconds. It allows me to start my morning with the peace of mind of knowing whether I’m in danger.

By the way, I’ve had a number of people contact me through the blog, phone, and Facebook asking questions. Please feel free to continue and I’ll share anything I can. I’ll also be glad to lend you my hemoglobin meter should you face some of the same blood issues as me. Other than professional laboratories, there are no hemoglobin test kits available at local pharmacies. At least I wasn’t able to find any and I searched pretty hard.

The other part of the problem with low hemoglobin is that there is an extreme shortage of blood to go around. That fact coupled with the omicron virus’s infection rate means that hospital services could be severely limited for patients like myself in the next two or three weeks. Thank God I’m nearing the end of my treatment cycle. No offense intended but those idiot anti-vaxers should be at the end of line when it comes to critical care. Dumbasses. If they don’t trust vaccines then they are definitely going to be extremely unhappy should they be faced with chemotherapy.

Emotionally, I’m in a pretty good place. The fact I’ve only a few more death-ray treatments left as I write this has obviously buoyed my mood. But as I’ve noted before, the funny thing is I remain out of touch with time. Some days it feels like I’ve been living this nightmare for months on end. Other times, it seems like a small blip on my radar screen.

My largest problem thus far (other than falling and spending a couple nights in intensive care), is the fact I can’t taste food. I can now expand on this complaint by adding I no longer have any interest in eating. While I still have the desire to suck on the bark and fat of a roasted prime-rib, I have almost totally lost any interest in finding something I can eat. That’s because there is nothing to eat that provides me any taste sensation. I have surrendered to the sad reality that I will probably spend the next month and a half feeling this way. After that, my taste buds should begin to gradually reemerge, especially since radiation has not affected my saliva glands (fingers crossed). Apparently, if the saliva glands are damaged by radiation, the taste buds could be permanently damaged to one degree or another. And when we speak of counting blessings, this one is huge.

So, here’s my new menu and daily nourishment routine.

By the way, I’m learning that routines are very important when it comes to cancer. They bring a sense of order to the occasional chaos that marks portions of this journey. They keep one “grounded”. In a way, I feel like I’m a captive in the Nimmo cancer bootcamp. And actually, I suspect I probably am.

My morning starts around 6:30. Being the dumbass that I am, I neglected to put a remote starter on my car so I go outside and turn my car on so it gets defrosted. Then I get a container which holds around four cups of water along with three horrible tasting protein nourishment shakes. But I don’t have to register their taste because I simply let them drain into my feeding tube after I flush it with some water. During the flush, I put in three prescription pills I crushed into powder the night before. I also throw in a couple tablespoons of Vicodin that helps me with my throat pain. During my feeding I mimic eating in the sense that after I pour some of the protein drink into the feeding tube, I’ll fallow it with some water. My breakfast meal complete with four cups of water takes about 20 minutes to finish. I then end it with a cap full of Mylanta to discourage any heartburn.

I then pee my dog, put him in my truck and go to the dog sitters. Lately I’ve had him spend the night more often than not so I can better take care of myself. He gets to hang out and play with five other dogs that are his brothers, sisters, and cousins so I suspect he’s not all that upset. I get the feeling that, much like work, I’m replaceable in doggie world too.

I arrive at the oncology center around 8 a.m. Amazingly enough, everybody sort of knows each other so I’m handed my orders and march through a door into the heart of the actual center. If it’s the day I receive chemo, I’m there for five hours. Otherwise, I get labs and a saline flush which takes about two and a half hours. I got a favorite nurse so she makes sure I always go to her section. For me, her presence makes life great, or at least as great as you can have it considering you got a time-bomb ticking at the base of your tongue.

Surprisingly, while there’s plenty of other patients in the chemo room with me, there’s not a lot of chat. Everybody sorta reclines in their chair, grabs a blanket, and fall into varying degrees of sleep. Or maybe they fall into varying degrees of thoughts. I suspect that anyone with an extended family facing this evil illness during the holidays, has a lot on their mind.

The strange thing about the chemo room is I can’t really tell how most of the patients are doing. Obviously, there are those who look defeated, showing very little signs in the way of energy or spirit. However, amazingly enough those patients are in the minority. The vast majority smile, joke around, and seem quite content in their chair. From their behaviors, a layperson couldn’t venture a guess at their prognosis. Still, the chemo nurses know and that strikes me as sort of eerie. I don’t even test my nurse to see her prediction about me because I have enough shit to be haunted by. Nevertheless, I wonder if she’ll tell me?

So anyways, once in my chair I put on earphones and listen to some radio station Apple has designed for me based on my past selections. It’s actually pretty cool although I have no idea how it got on my phone. And the music it plays is perfect for me.

Having seen the massive distrust about the government and social media, I suspect a bunch of people probably think my radio station is some type of way for the government to monitor my every movement. Perhaps in a more commercial way, it better allows marketers to prey on me. But I work for the government, at least the local one. And I can tell you there’s no way in hell that the government has enough brains or organization to surveil a person’s every move unless of course you’re an international terrorist. But if they do have the time and the manpower, go for it! Following me around would be one of the most boring wastes of time anyone could imagine. Hell, I don’t even follow myself around. In fact, I’d sorta be honored if someone thought I was important enough to spy on.

So anyways.

After I’m done at the oncology center I walk across the hall to radiology. There I’m greeted by Unmarraried who checks my temperature. Then I go into the confines of their office structure and sit awaiting my turn to be zapped. My name gets called, I say hello, and I get strapped in for my cancer tanning session. I’m usually there less than a half hour. The actual treatment takes around ten minutes. Radiation is kind of the McDonalds version of a drive through. While you see regulars enough to say hi, the wait is very short and there’s no time to meet anyone on any type of significant level. Afterwards I get in my car and come home. The time this occurs is usually round 11:30.

For lunch, its four more cups of water along with two protein shakes. By this time, I’m usually a little tired so I fall asleep on the couch. When I awake, I hunt in the kitchen for something to eat with my mouth. And even though I realize it’s going to taste like shit, I have to exercise my throat and practice swallowing otherwise recovery could be seriously jeopardized. Therefore, I choose something like applesauce or cottage cheese, things I consider neutral. I also use the lunch time to apply to my neck and shoulders a special type of lotion meant to mitigate the harm of radiation. I’ll do the same thing following dinner.

Dinnertime comes around six. It consists of two more shakes and four more cups of water. By now I’ve consumed about a half-gallon of water and yes, I’ve been reduced to a peeing fool. I suspect I get up three times a night to use the restroom. But again, this type of hydration practice is critical for recovery. And while I admit I was no fan of the feeding tube I simply could not have survived this trip without it. In fact, it’s absolutely my best friend.

Bedtime comes around 9 after my brother and I finish watching tv. Then this whole thing starts all over again the following morning.

It’s somewhat strange, but I was expecting the treatment portion of my journey to evoke a little more spiritual movement inside of me than what is has. I suspect that’s because the treatment regimen has been so arduous that there hasn’t been room for a lot of self-reflection or insight.  Granted, I’ve done my fair share of praying throughout this whole mess but even those acts haven’t touched the depth of where I figured my soul would be right now. It’s probably a little like war, whizzing bullets are best answered by returning shots as opposed to giving any thought to muttering words to a God who we aren’t really sure is a man or a woman.

But now that a three-day break in treatment is upon me for the Christmas Holidays and given the fact treatment is almost over, it’s probably a good time for me to activate my spirit and give a little appreciation for all my blessings.

…..

But spirit did appear on this day before Christmas Eve 2021. It came in the form of a young girl who I suspect was eight or nine. She was laying on a basic metal hospital bed with wheels, parked outside one of the radiation rooms, covered from neck to toe in a white blanket awaiting her turn to be treated. I passed her along with a neatly dressed Amish woman, who I assumed to be her mother, as I was being escorted to my radiation room. As I went by, our eyes met and we both smiled. And while we didn’t touch, I flashed her the peace sign which made her smile even bigger. She was a beautiful child with dark curly hair and soft features. We said hello to each other and I could sense she liked having been acknowledged.

Strangely enough, I wanted to reach out and touch her in the same way I’d touch a child of mine who was in pain. I wanted to spend a couple minutes with her telling her how much seeing her had affected me. But I suspect she already got those messages just from our short interaction.

When I got inside my treatment room, it was difficult for me or my two radiologist helpers to talk. We were overcome with tears knowing a young child was having to go through this shit that should be reserved for adults like me. Yep, Life can be unfair.

…..

I hope each of you have a wonderful Christmas season. And I pray the new year brings you health and great peace!