Haikus and radiation

Because of earlier radiation, the 25 nukings were not an option.  Instead they proposed the following.

Go to Bern, about two hours from Geneva. I was a bit worried. My German is bad and my Swiss German worse, but the charming doctor spoke seven languages with English and French being two of them. He was anything but stuffy.

He heats my skin with lamps for 45 mins. Then I get nuked for 28, 35 and 3 seconds. The concept is that if there is a microscopic cancer cell it will move to the heat and a lesser radiation will zap it. In place of the five times a week for five weeks it is one time a week for five weeks.

A piece of cake.

What do I do when I spend 45 mins with my eyes covered and heat lamps aimed at my chest warming my chest for the radiation?

I write haikus in my head. I don't claim they are poetic but they fit the form.

Rain batters the roof
Creating a melody
During my treatment

he machine clicks on
The machine clicks off
Warming my bare chest

The doctor and I
Talk of typewriters and more
It passes the time

Crayon colors my chest
In swirls and other designs
Target radio.

Miro and Calder
That is how my chest looks now
Radiation marks

So much for stereotypes

I had two concerns about radiation in Bern, which is about 2.5 hours from Geneva. Distance wasn't one of them.

1. I have done most of my medical stuff in French. My German, once quite good has descended into shopping German. Sometimes I can get the gist of a conversation, but not enough to deal with treatment details. I have even less understanding of the dialects of Swiss German. My daughter, when she was going to university in Germany would cross the Swiss-German border and often not understand what she was hearing nor would she be understood.

2. I had an image of a stuffy doctor. 

Entering reception, the smiley receptionist with short blond hair said, "Frau Nelson?" before I could say a word and we spoke French until she wanted to practice her  English. Forms were completed quickly.

I waited for the doctor to call me. He appeared: I am not sure of his age, somewhere maybe in his late 40s. He wore jeans under his white coat. "Madame Nelson?" 

Not Frau.

He spoke in French until he heard my accent and switched to English. I don't think he knows the meaning of the word stuffy in any of his three languages (four if you consider Swiss German a separate language). I quickly replaced the idea of stuffy with warm, competent, understanding.

He managed to add two appointments for that afternoon so the first of five weekly treatments could start on the 23rd. Realizing the distance he will schedule the appointments early afternoon. I may just set the alarm for 3 a.m. so I can appreciate not having to get up on treatment days.

He, too, is a history buff which I discovered when he explained that breast cancer had been treated with hot clay in ancient Egypt. That is known because of the hieroglyphics on tombs.

So what will they be doing?

My skin will be warmed to 42° for 45 minutes. Then the areas where the cancers were will be nuked for a few seconds. The heat causes any microscopic cells that might be lingering to come closer to the radiation. In other words they take on a kamikaze trait, which is fine with me. The radiation will be milder and do less damage to me. Instead of 25 nukings.

During the other two appointments, the attendants said they preferred English to French. They decorated me with pretty red designs as markers. I was photographed inside and outside my body.

I am ready for this last step soooo ready. So ready to get back to a normal life.

 

 

Life after chemo

Four weeks ago today I had my last chemo treatment, a killer dose 4x normal strength for many reasons which made sense as the good doctor, Nathalie B, explained it to us.

However, the side effects were a challenge. Exhaustion like I've never experienced sometimes made walking across the room a challenge. 

I never felt sick. If I were in bed, I felt fine, would get up to do all the things running thru my head and have to go back immediately.
The simplest thing was too much.

"This too will pass," became my mantra. I kept repeating other things, over and over in my head. The problem is from the chemo. It could be worse. No wonder I feel tired. I've been poisoned. If the chemicals are making me this useless and if there are any cancer cells hiding anywhere in my body, the poison better find them. I'm a wuss.  
  
The exhaustion mimicked the tides. There would be hours that I felt just normal tired.  

I worry that the feeling won't come back to my hands and feet and remind myself my mouth is no longer numb and my taste buds are no longer on holiday.

I worry that my hair won't grow back. That the first hair reappeared on my chin is little comfort. That my wig blew off solicited little embarrassment. The expression on the faces of the two teenagers standing nearby was worth it. I let Rick photograph my bald head. He wants to do it weekly to track growth.

I did make it to my landlord's for dinner and passed out. Missed dessert. I slept thru the night in the hospital: poor Rick did not.

There would be surges of feeling almost good. We made it to Argelès, which was medicine for my soul. A day didn't go by that some friend didn't drop in. I was able to free-write with my writing mate sitting on my bed.  Sorta like a literary pajama party.

On better hours we made La Noisette for an English breakfast and coffee with friends.

My husband was always there to help me thru the rough parts like walking up stairs and taking a shower.

He made wonderful meals, beautifully presented. Some days he was a short order cook and he brought back my favorite veggies from our local green grocers .  

For me the biggest frustration was being dependent and not doing most of the things I wanted to do. Making my own breakfast or emptying some dishes out of the dishwasher were major victories. 

The meals I would love to cook will have to wait until April when we return as will checking out the gardens as will organizing the things we moved from Geneva. 

I totally lost it over a garbage can and even as I was doing it, the words "idiot, it isn't important," were in my mind. 

Thru out this entire process we've carpe diemed all over the place.

Snuggling while watching Doc Martin or British mystery, making a snow rabbit (use your imagination, we are writers not sculptors) on the stairs outside our door, reading to each other from whatever book or article we think the other would like...these things were/are a reminder of what is good. 

My radiation treatment has been changed from 25 times for five weeks in Geneva to five times once for five weeks in Bern, a bit more than two hours away. Bern is a beautiful city. I want to share it with Rick. 

We have booked into a hotel Monday night before my first appointment on Tuesday. It promises a Frühstück with homemade jam. The rest of the appointments we will go up and back on the same day but we thought the first time should be special in a healthy way.

For the first time since June 2015 we are beginning to plan trips: Normandy to join my college friends leading a tour, Paris to see my Syrian friend and her husband, back to Argelès. Rick is heading for the States, my daughter is coming from Boston. These are things that normal people do. 

I want normal...I sooooooooooo want normal.

toilet seats

For years in the past, present and most likely the future, women complain when men leave the toilet seat up.

I am grateful to Rick's mother for training him to put it down.

But with chemo the roles have been reversed.

My chemo is so toxic that I was told to wash and dry the toilet seat twice after I used it in case I left perspiration on the seat. I wouldn't kill the person who used it next but it wouldn't be good for them either.

Rather than worry about it I started using the rim. And I left the seat up for Rick. When he sits down he puts the seat up for me.

After three days, the nurses said the toxicity will have passed. 

But will our confusion over gender roles and toilet seats?

Never the same

"Life is never the same after you have cancer," J said.

We were in my old bedroom with the woman who will provide my prosthesis and my sexy new underwear.

J was referring to the fact there is a missing breast and sometimes pain in the arm. There is also the niggle that maybe, just maybe somewhere inside the body a nasty little cell will set up housekeeping.

J is right, but life is never the same after lots of things:

• Having a child
• Marrying
• Changing homes, towns, states or countries

The list is endless.

Meanwhile neurotic me won't have the underwear I want immediately because I can't get the sets I want until the new catalogue comes out next month. I really feel uncomfortable if my underpants do not match my bra and I want pretty underwear. It can be cotton or something else, but I want pretty.

Meanwhile I have a plan B on temporary balancing of my chest with my old bras and matching panties.

 
No matter what happens with my underwear, I am not a refugee facing winter in a tent with an uncertain future.

I would add that this is a detail not a problem.

Me and the train

When I was a little girl, my grandmother read this to me many, many times. This little engine was able to bring milk to all the good little boys and girls in the city where another bigger engine had failed.

Never mind that I hated milk, I was impressed that the train kept saying, I think I can, I think I can over and over.

In response to yesterday's post where I admitted being discouraged, someone wrote "You CAN do it"
I don't think I can, I know I can. All without drinking milk.

Helicopter Husband

Helicopter Husband

This is a dueling blog. My version follows

When I first came to Europe to start our relationship, D-L's friends, as well as her daughter, warned me vociferously not to "hover" around Donna-Lane in the manner of a protective boyfriend/fiance/spouse. After all, she had lived on her own for years, decades, and not only was well capable of fending for herself, she has the sort of alpha female personality that tends to do first and communicate later. For the first few months (maybe even now), I was fearful that I would say or do something to offend her independent spirit and she'd send me packing.

Circumstances have changed recently, albeit temporarily. Since July, D-L has been going through chemotherapy treatments following both gallbladder and breast cancer surgery. The chemicals leave her pretty fatigued most days of the week (after a good day or two immediately following a treatment) and most hours of the day. She does well to sit at the computer for maybe an hour before she has to crawl back into bed to rest and ease her shakiness.

I've transitioned from being her toy boy to being the family chef, butler, opener of the heavy door (that sticks halfway) between our bedroom and the bath, and steady hand when walking up a flight of stairs or through the hospital corridor on our twice-weekly visits.

Because she has passed out once and almost a second time from low blood pressure, I am rarely out of earshot or more than a few feet away. Yes, I hover. So a few days ago D-L dubbed me her "helicopter husband." Like a "helicopter parent" who is over-protective of their kid. (I was that too - when my daughter was learning to drive as a teenager, I first took her to a large, empty parking lot. Since the car we had at the time "idled" at about 20 mph, I saw no need for her to touch the gas pedal!)

Donna-Lane vows that once she is through the chemo and the radio, she wants to balance the scales by waiting on me for awhile. I'll settle for turning in my rotor blades and returning to our normal no-hover lifestyle. 

 

Helicopter husband

My mother could have created the manual for the helicopter mom a half a decade before the term was created. I hated being over protected.

Fast backward to three years ago when Rick and I were getting together. My friends who approved of him and actually thought he might be good for me took him aside and said, "Don't smother her. Give her freedom. She's very independent." The underlining message was "Or you'll be history."

My daughter added another message, "And she'll steal your socks."

He believed both. Some of his socks disappeared. He didn't hover.

Then I developed breast cancer. I made sure he attended all my appointments, although in most there was only French spoken and I had to translate. He had said this is a motivation to speed up his learning process. I wanted him to not feel left out.

We went thru the bad news, the good news, the bad news, the good news. They think they got it all. Chemo and radiation would be preventative.

After surgery, I still was able to maintain my full independence. But with chemo, I was less brave. There have been times walking across the room has left me without energy. Doing chores that should be ordinary were/are exhausting. Unloading a dishwasher shouldn't leave me shaking, but it does on the bad days.

He took over.

"You are a helicopter husband," I've told him as he worried about leaving me alone. For whenever I was weak, his blade rotated at full speed making sure I don't faint on him as I did one day.

He didn't deny it. 

Now chemo is almost at an end. Radiation will be tiring but not like this. In a few months I will regain my strength and we will be back to normal. I've promised him that I will do the cooking for months rather than our alternating under our previous arrangement.

"We'll see," he said. 

I hate being dependent, wanting to do stuff but not having the energy. I have learned that it is okay to ask for help, to not always be 100% strong. I have learned that having a hovering, helicopter husband is a good thing when needed.

Because on my good days, when I do feel normal, he lands his helicopter and shuts off the hover mode, I know our lives will resume.

Meanwhile I need a clean pair of socks, and when he isn't looking I'll check out his drawer.

Helicopter husband

My mother could have created the manual for the helicopter mom a half a decade before the term was created. I hated being over protected.

Fast backward to three years ago when Rick and I were getting together. My friends who approved of him and actually thought he might be good for me took him aside and said, "Don't smother her. Give her freedom. She's very independent." The underlining message was "Or you'll be history."

My daughter added another message, "And she'll steal your socks."

He believed both. Some of his socks disappeared. He didn't hover.

Then I developed breast cancer. I made sure he attended all my appointments, although in most there was only French spoken and I had to translate. He had said this is a motivation to speed up his learning process. I wanted him to not feel left out.

We went thru the bad news, the good news, the bad news, the good news. They think they got it all. Chemo and radiation would be preventative.

After surgery, I still was able to maintain my full independence. But with chemo, I was less brave. There have been times walking across the room has left me without energy. Doing chores that should be ordinary were/are exhausting. Unloading a dishwasher shouldn't leave me shaking, but it does on the bad days.

He took over.

"You are a helicopter husband," I've told him as he worried about leaving me alone. For whenever I was weak, his blade rotated at full speed making sure I don't faint on him as I did one day.

He didn't deny it. 

Now chemo is almost at an end. Radiation will be tiring but not like this. In a few months I will regain my strength and we will be back to normal. I've promised him that I will do the cooking for months rather than our alternating under our previous arrangement.

"We'll see," he said. 

I hate being dependent, wanting to do stuff but not having the energy. I have learned that it is okay to ask for help, to not always be 100% strong. I have learned that having a hovering, helicopter husband is a good thing when needed.

Because on my good days, when I do feel normal, he lands his helicopter and shuts off the hover mode, I know our lives will resume.

Meanwhile I need a clean pair of socks, and when he isn't looking I'll check out his drawer.