Clawing My Way Back

I feel as if there is always dried blood under my nails from clawing my way back from this or that. Either my white blood cell count is too low or my blood sugar is high or my blood pressure is barely registering. 

"Maybe I'm just not here anymore," I told the nurse after she unsuccessfully tried to get my blood pressure twice. 

"Oh, you're here," she said. "But, maybe you just keep fading in and out." 

Maybe. I feel as if the last chemo, appropriately referred to as the red devil or the red death, has taken me to hell. 

I lived in that place for nearly a week. I got the Doxil, the red devil and was surprised when I felt pretty good the next day. Sure. I was tired but I was ALWAYS tired. 

And then it was two days later and I could barely get out of bed. I would feel the need to throw up and push off the covers, trying desperately to get my footing, feeling as if I were on a ship in a deep current. I would weave to the bathroom adjacent to our bedroom, holding on to dressers and sinks and bathtubs on the way. I would then proceed to puke my guts out. Or maybe my lungs. I wasn't eating and barely drinking anything. How was all this liquid coming out of me? To make it worse, it was red. I had been forewarned that since Doxil is red, I would cry, pee and sweat red. It naturally figures that I would puke red, too. But, still. That first time. Scary. 

When I was in bed, I was mostly in and out of sleep. Consciousness. I had either strange dreams or hallucinations; I am not sure which. T tells me that I once told her that I had been talking to my Dad and he had introduced me to my mother's mother, my grandmother, whom I'd never met. 

"You told me that it was too bad I had missed them, that you had called for me but I must have been outside or something." 

I have no recollection of this. I remember thinking that there was a cat in my room at some point and I was enamored with its jumping skills. 

We own no cat. 

T says that she would come from school to check on me and there would be tears running down my cheeks but she couldn't rouse me to find out what was wrong. 

She was in a hard spot. I had forced her to promise me months ago that if she ever thought that I was dying, she was NOT to call the emergency squad. 

"Just hold my hand and sit with me," I had instructed her. She says that this was easy in theory but difficult in practice. That watching me tortured like this was, well.....torture.  For her. 

I had incredible dreams. Some just wild and rambling. Flying dreams. Swimming dreams of being deep, deep under the sea. Seeing a LOT of dead people but not being afraid. Other dreams were nightmares. Being chased. Always being chased. Not sure what was chasing me, but finding no safe place to hide. 

Other times, T tells me that I seemed to be having conversations. Nearly always in the wee hours of the morning. 

"I would wake up and hear you talking. So, I'd go in the bedroom and try to talk to to you, wake you up. Sometimes I was successful, most of the time....not. And sometimes you were speaking in non-English. Usually French or Gaelic." 

She taped me occasionally. I don't speak ANY language but English fluently, so hearing this truly freaked me out. Once, T says she came in to hear me talking and asked who I was talking to, not expecting me to answer. This time, I did. 

"I was just talking to my guardian angel," I told her. "I'm not looking forward to this thing, but he said that he would help me." 

She asked what his name was. I told her, Tofi. And just like that, I as asleep again, 

Little by little, I came back to life. It was hard. It took many days. One day, I was able to get out of bed without weaving. Then, the constant jumble in my head went down to a dull roar. Then, I could get up and dress myself. Finally, I felt that I could drive. 

I still take naps every day. But, I am, once again, mobile. I still feel extremely fragile. My stamina is limited. I made myself a bowl of Campbells Chicken Noodle Soup today. And was so tired that I could barely eat it. 

A few days ago, I had my second doctor's visit since the red devil. My labs were a mess. I now have to schedule an appointment to see a specialist because my labs indicate that I am severely inflamed somewhere in my body, but we aren't sure where. 

I told the oncologist that I feel as if a serial killer is in my house but I am not sure where. I keep opening closet doors, terrified. 

I have to see a gynecologist to check my pelvis walls. 

And on and on with the labs and appointments. 

The oncologist wants to stick with Doxil, but only go at a half dose and instead of every two weeks, get it once a month. I have cautiously agreed. I won't get tumor markers done for another two weeks. If the Doxil has made an impact, we will carefully stay on it at a weaker dose. If it has not made an impact, forget that shit. I will move on to what I refer to as my last chance. I have gone through all the cancer treatments and none has worked....except this last one. 

Fingers crossed. But, then.....they are always crossed. 

BTW, remember Tofi, the "guardian angel"? A funny thing happened this week. I had to go in a few days ago to get labs. I know every single phlebotomy nurse in the place. Or, thought I did. This time, a large black male nurse came out and called my name. I went to one of the phlebotomy rooms with him. He informed me, in a heavy French accent, that he would need to take several vials of blood from my port, get a urine sample and then take blood from a vein in my hand. I was upset. The reason I had a port put in was to eliminate all the pain and suffering I had endured when the nurses tried to get blood out of my regular veins. I was not just a hard stick, I was an impossible one. I told him this. He smiled and said that he thought it would be okay. 

Famous last words. They ALWAYS say this and then try to stick me and end up exasperated. My veins roll. They jump. They pretty much do whatever it takes not to get captured. I have seldom, if ever had a nurse get me on the first try. I sighed. Could feel the tears stand up in my eyes. This was going to hurt and no way around it. I held out my arms defiantly to show him how bad my veins were. He shrugged and looked at my hands and then turned to the medical table. He came back with a syringe and an alcohol wipe. He swiped it rapidly across my hand and then before I could blink, had the syringe in my vein. It was a successful stick and had not hurt. I was astonished. I told him that this NEVER happened to me. He smiled and said, "Never say never!" I asked him his name. 

"Tofi," he said. Right. Could have knocked me over with a feather. How much do you want to bet that I never see him again? 

I walked out of the hospital in a daze, stopping only to yank my capris up every few steps. I have lost so much weight that my pants no longer stay on properly. 

 I am sharing these last two weeks of August with Lucy. She leaves for a year abroad on August 31. She will be home for Christmas. I will try to make it until then. 

Next week is filled with Dr. appts and labs. In between, I will hug Lucy. 

Wish me well. Time to go back to clawing my way out of here.