My dreams lately have been odd versions of working in an office or a restaurant or somewhere else that might have previously been a place of employment for me but dreams cloud facts, making it unrecognizable. I suspect my subconscious, so desirous of returning to actual industriousness, has given it to me when I'm asleep. Mostly, when I awaken, I remember only shards of those dreams, the sharp pieces of half-remember stories that cause an ache in my midriff that might be connected to those now-healed robot holes.
It's okay, though. I know that I'll remember this year as the year of chemo. "What did I do last year? Oh, yeah, chemo." It's not that I don't do other things. It's more that chemo colors every last thing that I do. For instance, I went to the Bloomfield Market last Saturday but before I could do that, I had to get my pre-chemo cycle blood work. That meant no soft pretzels from the market. There's a vendor that makes big, soft, salty pretzels – incredibly good. But you have to arrive before 10 if you want one. See – chemo. Yes, I could get up really early to get the blood work done but I always forget. Also a chemo side effect.
It's a fortunate problem. I know that I'm lucky to be well enough to visit the market, check out the stalls, buy fresh baguettes and scallions and strawberries so perfectly ripe the bees are visiting as I make my selections. A good friend reminded me recently that I can be lucky AND chemo can suck, at the same time. A necessary reminder.
A recent Saturday was one of those perfect days, the kind you'd design for an outdoor party, which is exactly where we spent the day. I'm photo-sensitive, thanks to chemo, but it was the right amount of shady in the backyard, patches of sunlight filtering through waving green leaves. By the time I left, my body was telling me I'd stayed too long but Sunday loomed ahead, quiet and open for recovery.
I have only one of my scan results – it seems good though I will hear the details and look at the scans at my next doctor appointment. The other scan isn't back yet. There are currently some shortages of radiologists on the team, resulting in a backlog of scans to be read. I'll be grateful for the positive MRI results and move on.
If you've never had a CT or MRI, it's an experience. CTs are not a big deal; contrast, for me, felt like a hot liquid flowing through my bloodstream, unpleasant but bearable. The MRI is so loud and so lengthy that it could fairly be described as tedious. When I have to hold my breath, I count the machine noises to pass the time. One of the noises – there are two distinct types – occurs 39 times between breaths. The louder, faster sound occurs 80 times.
Upcoming is my colonoscopy. I joked at the beginning of the year that I'd be trading colonoscopies for PET scans but unfortunately, my type of cancer doesn't show up on PETs or in blood tests. So, colonoscopies and mammograms will continue.
Instead of drinking an enormous jug of something salty and vaguely lemon flavored, I have to drink two 8oz containers of a mystery liquid. It's daunting to consider but given that I have a significant amount of gastro-intestinal … issues … it might actually be the easiest prep I've ever had.
Sadly, I'm on chemo pills for the colonoscopy so I have to eat lots of Jello on my prep day, according to my oncologist. She laughed when she said that but it was sympathetic. Honestly, I think it's pretty funny that I'm mixing a childhood treat with a poison.
Are you thinking about your favorite Jello flavors right now? I ate it frequently after liver surgery, when nothing tasted good. Now, I have boxes of lemon and peach, along with a bottle of apple juice ready for Wednesday. Meal planning made simple, I guess.
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