April 27, 2006
How could a day like today be so heavy? The sunlight has been perfect, the trees are filling out, nature is singing loudly and my blood cell readings are up. Yet, my molecules and spirits are flat and down. When I got out of the hospital, it was a joy, as always when one moves on from the place of repair, and I suppose I assumed that I was in order, but this was not to be. I had been given a patch for the pain; this in turn was giving me nausea and swimming head making the price too high. Yesterday morning was spent at the oncologist’s office talking through the mysterious blood clot in the kidney, how to control the pain, and so forth. The patch was taken off with the decision that other approaches to pain control would be tried, and yet more tests were ordered with the hopes of tracing the source of the arterial clot. Either it had come from the heart, or it occurred at the kidney site because of a narrowing of the artery, or something like that. I received the last chemotherapy treatment, the injection of the Neulasta, the injection of the Aranesp, and went home. The nausea increased, making all food and scents of food dreadful.
When I went to bed last night I was convinced that today I would be out from under the pain patch residue, and since the numbers were better, I was also certain to have energy and life would move forward in a better way. This morning it was all bad; no energy at all, no appetite, no joy anywhere. I gave myself the injection of blood thinner, called Lovenox, of all things (one of the warnings is not to use it is you are allergic to pork – I don’t even want to think about the connections that might have.) Everything is self contained with the medication already pre measured in a syringe which is wrapped in heavy plastic. The needle is one half inch long; in all of the injections I have been getting, I always averted my eyes, thus sparing myself the sight of a needle disappearing into my flesh. Now of course, I have to pay attention and one half inch of needle seems quite a lot, actually. It goes straight in there by the navel, I push in the syringe, the stinging begins, I withdraw the syringe, pat the entry spot with the alcohol, and that’s that. This has to be done every twelve hours. Then I push at the top of the thing, and a plastic cover snaps down and over the needle part so that it is not a danger. I am to save all of these and bring them to the oncologist’s office for disposal.
I slept most of the morning, then went out for a walk through the woods, hoping for some uplifting thoughts and emotions. As I walked along, I realized that I would not be able to do the Cat Scan test planned for tomorrow morning; it would mean another IV put into the top side of the hand and another jolt of dye with the intoned words, “This may sting and you will feel like you have wet your pants, but it just feels that way.”
“I just can’t” I wailed to Charles, “I just can’t. . . ” and he held me and said, “Then don’t do it. . . it is your body, you must always remember that.” I cancelled the tests, and tomorrow morning, Heidi will come out instead, bearing good cheer and energy and food; she will pick me up again, setting me forth on the path that is mine to take – I end the day giving thanks again for love and support and dear ones who care so deeply.