Groundhog Day

Quarantine sucks. And I am sort of in quarantine all the time. I have been told by my oncologist for over a year to stay away from large crowds and to not let sick people get within 6 feet from me. 

But this takes the cake. Just three weeks ago, @LeeDeWyze was at my house and we were all in a group discussing how interesting this corona virus thing was. None of us was particularly worried. None of us wore masks. Toilet paper hoarders had surfaced in Lee's home state of California, but we all chuckled about them. I don't think any of us worried that within 3 weeks, we would all be practicing self distance. Or that finding toilet paper would be a serious predicament.

None of us knew what our president had known about since early January. That this was a pandemic. 

My life has not drastically changed. I only go out to get chemo and to doctor appointments. T and I had discussed her taking FMLA sometime in the next year; we had casually batted around her taking it now. But cancer is a tricky wicket. I could die tonight. I could live another year. We wanted to save FMLA for when I was unable to walk by myself. We had decided to wait. Lucky for us, we are sort of in FMLA already. T is a teacher. She is out of school. Luckily, after the Spanish Flu epidemic, our state initiated legislation assuring that teachers would be paid if there was ever another pandemic and they could not teach at school. 

Our lives are not in direct danger. Other people are not so lucky. The guy who owns the bowling alley. The family down the street who runs that incredible breakfast cafe. The college kid who works at the theater to help pay for his tuition. 

Shopping has proven to be adventurous. T is our designated shopper and she reports that while toilet paper is still hard to find (we finally found ours at Whole Foods...), unexpected things are gone. Chicken. Noodles. But, we have not suffered. We don't get much takeout anymore and we used to pretty much live on that. Now, we have sandwiches. Soup. T will make a roast and we will stretch it out for days. She found a chicken breast the other day. She will make it and we will have chicken soup and chicken salad for several days. It helps that I barely eat anymore. And the rice pudding or canned fruit that I am able to keep down is not in shortage. But our shopping habits have changed. We now plan to only shop every two weeks instead of weekly. Less exposure. Hand sanitizer had never been a problem. Since cancer, our house has a big bottle of it in every room. 

My chemo appointments are very complicated. Patients are no longer allowed to bring "a companion" with them. If they are in a wheelchair, their caregiver is allowed to escort them to the doctor's door. Then, a nurse in a gown, gloves, and a face mask meets them. The chair is wiped down. The caregiver is instructed to wait outside until chemo is over. 

I had chemo on Thursday. I get my chemo at an infusion center that also holds oncology offices. At the front door, I had my temperature taken and was asked all the same old questions before they even let me into the elevator. Have you been practicing safe distancing? I think so. Yes. Have you had contact with anyone who has been out of the country in the last month? That's a harder one. I have spoken to a lot of people in the LAST MONTH. Any one of them could have been traveling. But....I just say no. Have you experienced a fever of more than 100.4, had a sore throat or a cough recently? This is even harder. I get CHEMO, dude. It is a side effect that I suddenly spike a fever occasionally, get sore throats and cough. Again. I say no. I know the difference between an unusual cough or sore throat and chemo. 

I am handed a mask. I put it on and go up in the elevator to the phlebotomy unit where I get labs done. Then, on to the oncologist's office. 

This is the odd part. My oncologist is careful to distance herself from me. She does listen to my heart, but is quick about it. My labs are ok, she says and I can get my chemo this week. I ask her what my white blood cell count was. She looks at her computer and says, "It was fine." 

Excuse me? I repeat that I would like to know my COUNT. She says she doesn't have the exact count but will get me a readout before I leave. I am tempted to refuse treatment until I see my labs, but that seems kind of bratty, so I just nod. I think about mentioning how sick this latest chemo makes me, but decide that it isn't important. I need to stay on it for at least a month before they check my tumor markers again and I want to stay on it...give it a chance. I will just endure it. But the whole mood in the doctor's office is edgy. Any of us could be carrying that corona grenade. 

I go to the infusion room to get chemo. It is quiet in there. The TV is not on. No one is saying much. You can see that we all tried to distance ourselves from each other, but now that is impossible as the room is busy. We are all seated next to each other, trying not to breathe anyone too much. 

The magazine rack which is usually stuffed with all kinds of magazines is gone. A note says, If you bring a magazine, please take it home with you. 

After a while, we tentatively begin talking. Ray misses his grand kids but his son tells him that the kids are going to the park, etc. There are not many people and they keep their distance, but you never know. They could be carriers. Best to protect him. They skype.  

Teresa laughs her salty laugh. "Oh, MY grandkids are spending more time at my house than they ever did. Their parents practically dump them on my porch and run. I am guessing that I am more exposed now than I have ever been." 

I think of Conrad and his texts. 

If you need me to shop, just give me a list and I will get it and leave it on the front porch. I'm still going to work every day, so could expose you. Just be sure to wipe everything down when you bring it in. 

It may be a very long few months. So far, so good. My life had been whittled down to practically nothing, so it is not drastically different. But, I see T looking outside and longing for her twice daily long walks. She still walks but tries to go at odd times, so she won't see anyone she knows. I see her wanting to get out and browse at The Dollar Store or Goodwill, just for fun. To get an ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. She is careful to limit her exposure in order to protect me. She busies herself with odd messy jobs around the house that basically annoy me, but I am quiet. She is keeping busy and as the weeks go by, that will be more and more important. 

I texted with my sister in law last night. She lives alone outside of Chicago, but has to take the train into the city every day as her job is considered essential by the government. She says that instead of hundreds of people on the train with her every day, there are now just four or five. 

"This virus scares me," she wrote. "I think eventually it will get all of us." 

She is a chemist and extremely well read medically, much more than I am. I felt chilled to the bone when I read her words...because they rang true to me. 

If I get it, I will go fast. I am older and terminally ill. I will be low on the totem pole for those fast going respirators. And I agree with that thinking. Let the ones who have the best chance of surviving have what we have. 

But then my old fear snakes up through me. I have always told T that I am not really afraid to die, except that I do not want to choke or smother to death. I fear that. 

For now, all we can do is try to stay safe and look out for each other. When this is all over, our country will look much different. We have to do what Americans do best. Adapt and endure. 

So....good luck to you all. Adapt and endure. Look out for each other. 

Be safe.  



















Comments

  1. Always so glad to find you here. Stay safe, friend.

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  2. Hey you. I think about you all the time. Hanging in?

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    1. Currently in hell. Mouth sores. Every side effect there is from my double chemo. Actually woke up the other night thinking that I had a button on my tongue. Turned out to be half of my tooth. The good side? My cancer markers are way down. The bad side? Will they save me before the cancer kills me? This is something to ponder. Should I stay or should I go? Some days the wish to leave is very, very strong. Cancer is too tough for this tough bird, I suspect. Sorry. Just keeping it real.

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    2. Really glad to hear from you.

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    3. So deeply sorry you're at the mercy of such horrible side effects, but so relieved, after a month of wondering, that you're still with us.

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  3. I have been thinking about you and checking your blog for updates often over the past month Maria. Keeping you in my thoughts often.

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