We have made it past a pretty important milestone chez Wells: T is done with his chemo treatments. It's such a simple statement, but it means so much more to us. It's the end of nausea, the end of overwhelming fatigue, the end of dreading what we know would happen every two weeks, and most importantly, the end of the damnable cancer. He'll have a CT scan at the end of April, and he'll also see the surgeon to determine when the surgery to reverse his ostomy will happen. By the time the kids start summer break, I hope this is all behind us.
The thing is, it'll never really be done. Of course, he'll have follow-up appointments and scans to determine that the cancer has not returned. But the last ten months and the next few to come will always be with us. We'll never go to an appointment without a modicum of fear or worry. It will forever be the year of cancer when we look back at this point in our lives.
When T was diagnosed, I remember wondering how this would change us as a couple and as a family. I was so afraid of what we would become. In a small sense, it was far more difficult than I ever anticipated. Seeing T in the hospital, knowing how terribly ill the chemo made him, and wanting to just take it all away was almost more than I could handle. In a larger sense, it went so much smoother than I ever thought possible because of all the help we received. I was lucky enough to have the kind of help that made it fairly easy to stick to a daily routine and a "normal" life for the kids. I can't think of many events, major or minor, that we missed out on because there were always people around to ensure that we were where we needed to be when we needed to be there. The way my family and our friends made themselves utterly and completely available to us was truly a thing of selfless beauty and love. Because of everyone who helped, nothing changed for the worse. We were still a family, and better yet, my kids had and continue to have amazing examples of what it truly means to be a friend.
As far as changing us as a couple, I think the cancer has made us appreciate each other more. I can only speak for myself, but at the end of the day, I'm happy to curl up and watch a show or read a book at home, anything just to be near T. I'm still totally annoyed when he doesn't change the toilet paper roll or puts his dirty dishes near the dishwasher instead of in it, but I'm more willing to overlook the little stuff.
That whole "in sickness and in health" line in a wedding ceremony tends to get lost sometimes, but it's one of the most important parts there is. T wasn't allowed to give up his fight, and I wasn't either. His fight was obviously more important, but I fought to keep everything else in our lives together. I think we'll both carry those war wounds around for the rest of our lives. It is said that time heals all wounds, but I don't think that's necessarily true. Time allows the wounds to scab over and begin to heal; however, time also creates scars, lengthens them, and raises them to the surface, making them impossible to forget. Maybe that's not the worst thing in the world though, remembering. Even though it's not a time I ever want to repeat, it's worth remembering that life gets tough, but we are tougher. Maybe we have changed; however, we're together, and nothing else really matters.
Showing posts with label chemo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chemo. Show all posts
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Monday, December 22, 2014
Miracle on the street of Wells
I love Christmastime. I love the cold weather, bundling up in sweaters, hot cocoa by the fire, giving gifts, and snuggling up with my family. I was a little worried that things would be off this year, and although it's not our normal Christmas, it seems as though things will be better than I thought.
T had his second chemotherapy infusion last week. The first one was not exactly carefree: he ended up in the ER due to dehydration. He was a zombie for at least four days, and I was terrified. I know he was dreading the second infusion as soon as the first one was over. After all, going into something that he knew would make him sick wasn't something to look forward to. Luckily, the staff at NMH was, as always, on its A game and did some futzing around with the chemo dosage and anti-nausea meds. Apparently there is a good twenty percent of leeway when it comes to the dosage, and T's doc lowered his a bit to see if it would help.
Help it did. He has had very little nausea compared to the first time, and he has been able to eat and drink normally. He also figured out that although it is encouraged for chemo patients to eat before a treatment, it's not such a good idea for him. Hindsight. My amazing dad took T in for his treatment, and I spent the whole day trying to stay as busy as possible so I didn't think about what the effects might be. Imagine my surprise and delight when they arrived home and T wasn't clutching an emesis bag.
The sense of relief for me was immediate: I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off my heart. I didn't realize how tense I had been, and then all I wanted to do was sleep for about twenty hours. T was obviously happy as well, and I think he slept well that night knowing that not every infusion would result in days and days of sickness and misery.
T is still fatigued, but he'll be able to fully participate in our family's holiday happenings. Even though there are still three days until Christmas Day, my Christmas wish has come true. I can't think of anything else that could make me as happy as this did. Well, unless someone got me a unicorn because that would be pretty cool.
From our home to yours, Merry Christmas, and may all of your Christmas wishes come true.
T had his second chemotherapy infusion last week. The first one was not exactly carefree: he ended up in the ER due to dehydration. He was a zombie for at least four days, and I was terrified. I know he was dreading the second infusion as soon as the first one was over. After all, going into something that he knew would make him sick wasn't something to look forward to. Luckily, the staff at NMH was, as always, on its A game and did some futzing around with the chemo dosage and anti-nausea meds. Apparently there is a good twenty percent of leeway when it comes to the dosage, and T's doc lowered his a bit to see if it would help.
Help it did. He has had very little nausea compared to the first time, and he has been able to eat and drink normally. He also figured out that although it is encouraged for chemo patients to eat before a treatment, it's not such a good idea for him. Hindsight. My amazing dad took T in for his treatment, and I spent the whole day trying to stay as busy as possible so I didn't think about what the effects might be. Imagine my surprise and delight when they arrived home and T wasn't clutching an emesis bag.
The sense of relief for me was immediate: I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off my heart. I didn't realize how tense I had been, and then all I wanted to do was sleep for about twenty hours. T was obviously happy as well, and I think he slept well that night knowing that not every infusion would result in days and days of sickness and misery.
T is still fatigued, but he'll be able to fully participate in our family's holiday happenings. Even though there are still three days until Christmas Day, my Christmas wish has come true. I can't think of anything else that could make me as happy as this did. Well, unless someone got me a unicorn because that would be pretty cool.
From our home to yours, Merry Christmas, and may all of your Christmas wishes come true.
 |
| Credit: pwsa.co.uk |
Monday, December 8, 2014
The twelve days of cancer
On the first day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the second day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the third day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the fourth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the fifth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the sixth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the seventh day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the eighth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the ninth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the tenth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T ten medical professionals, nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T eleven oyster crackers, ten medical professionals, nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T twelve days until it starts again, eleven oyster crackers, ten medical professionals, nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the second day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the third day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the fourth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the fifth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the sixth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the seventh day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the eighth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the ninth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the tenth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T ten medical professionals, nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T eleven oyster crackers, ten medical professionals, nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, the cancer gave to T twelve days until it starts again, eleven oyster crackers, ten medical professionals, nine missed meals, eight dry heaves, seven lost pounds, six rounds of vomiting, five emesis bags, four pharmacy receipts, three anti-nausea meds, two days of chemo in a fanny pack, and a bad dose of chemotherapy.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
'Tis the season
Dear Santa,
Ah, the holidays. Spending time with family, decorating the house, crackling fires, hot cocoa, warm cookies, and chemo.
On Friday, T will begin round two of chemo. Chemo: the sequel. Last time, he did an oral form of chemo along with radiation. That's when he had to go into Chicago every week day for twenty-eight days. Talk about exhausting. This time, it's a bit of a different routine. He'll go to Northwestern for an afternoon where he'll have labs taken and chemo through the port he had implanted last week. The chemo will last about three hours that day, and then he'll get to come home with a very fashionable fanny pack. The pack will be attached to his port, and it will continue to dispense chemo for two to three days. (I hope T will let me bedazzle the fanny pack. Glitter and sparkles for the holidays! It's all the rage in chemo chic.) After those few days, hopefully a home health aide will come to the house to unhook the chemo from his port just so we don't have to make another trip into the city. If not, we'll deal.
He'll have two weeks between his chemo treatments. We hope this rest period will lessen the fatigue that tends to go hand in hand with chemo. The holiday season is not exactly the best time for T to be sick and tired. Then again, I guess no season is really great for that kind of nonsense. But T's birthday is coming soon, then Christmas, then New Year's. The kids will be out of school for two weeks, and if it's anything like last time, I'll be frantically trying to keep them quiet so T can rest or sleep. Maybe it won't be so bad, though. T isn't exactly a cold weather kind of guy, so it's not like he would be out enjoying the snow in his free time. If the weather is as bitterly cold as the random, nameless Internet sources are saying, we'll all just want to hunker down and stay warm together.
We know how everything went down last time, and so there is a bit of trepidation going into this round. T knows what to expect, and although this time may be completely different from the last time, it's hard to ignore past experience. There is also the addition of the stoma and the ostomy bag this time around, and that's a wild card. But that's life, isn't it?
My Christmas wish is that our family can get through this next step with our sanity intact, with our love for one another still strong, with the ability to find joy in the little things, to keep making each other laugh even when we want to cry, and the holiday magic still sparkling throughout the house. It's a tall order, but there are four believers chez Wells who would appreciate anything you can spare. I promise we'll leave some good treats by the fireplace for you, and I hope you're able to get a good, long rest after the holidays.
Give my best to Mrs. Claus and the elves!
Love,
K. C.
PS-It wouldn't be terrible if you wanted to leave me an elf to do the laundry.
Ah, the holidays. Spending time with family, decorating the house, crackling fires, hot cocoa, warm cookies, and chemo.
On Friday, T will begin round two of chemo. Chemo: the sequel. Last time, he did an oral form of chemo along with radiation. That's when he had to go into Chicago every week day for twenty-eight days. Talk about exhausting. This time, it's a bit of a different routine. He'll go to Northwestern for an afternoon where he'll have labs taken and chemo through the port he had implanted last week. The chemo will last about three hours that day, and then he'll get to come home with a very fashionable fanny pack. The pack will be attached to his port, and it will continue to dispense chemo for two to three days. (I hope T will let me bedazzle the fanny pack. Glitter and sparkles for the holidays! It's all the rage in chemo chic.) After those few days, hopefully a home health aide will come to the house to unhook the chemo from his port just so we don't have to make another trip into the city. If not, we'll deal.
He'll have two weeks between his chemo treatments. We hope this rest period will lessen the fatigue that tends to go hand in hand with chemo. The holiday season is not exactly the best time for T to be sick and tired. Then again, I guess no season is really great for that kind of nonsense. But T's birthday is coming soon, then Christmas, then New Year's. The kids will be out of school for two weeks, and if it's anything like last time, I'll be frantically trying to keep them quiet so T can rest or sleep. Maybe it won't be so bad, though. T isn't exactly a cold weather kind of guy, so it's not like he would be out enjoying the snow in his free time. If the weather is as bitterly cold as the random, nameless Internet sources are saying, we'll all just want to hunker down and stay warm together.
We know how everything went down last time, and so there is a bit of trepidation going into this round. T knows what to expect, and although this time may be completely different from the last time, it's hard to ignore past experience. There is also the addition of the stoma and the ostomy bag this time around, and that's a wild card. But that's life, isn't it?
My Christmas wish is that our family can get through this next step with our sanity intact, with our love for one another still strong, with the ability to find joy in the little things, to keep making each other laugh even when we want to cry, and the holiday magic still sparkling throughout the house. It's a tall order, but there are four believers chez Wells who would appreciate anything you can spare. I promise we'll leave some good treats by the fireplace for you, and I hope you're able to get a good, long rest after the holidays.
Give my best to Mrs. Claus and the elves!
Love,
K. C.
PS-It wouldn't be terrible if you wanted to leave me an elf to do the laundry.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Update
First of all, thank you SO much for all of the support we have received from all of you! Trevor and I are truly overwhelmed with gratitude: We had no idea people liked us this much! (Especially Trevor because sometimes he's a bit of a pill.)
Since I last wrote, T has been to a couple of appointments at Northwestern Memorial Hospital (NMH) with some great doctors. We met with a surgical oncologist who put his cancer at a stage 3 and gave us some options. She said she could either do surgery first and then chemo/radiation after or a round of chemo/radiation, surgery, and another round of chemo/radiation. The next day, T was lucky enough to score an appointment with a medical oncologist at NMH with the same opinions as the surgeon. The two doctors planned to present T's case at the next tumor conference next week to see what their colleagues think as well. Doctors who seek opinions of others and voluntarily share information and experiences? Ah-MAY-zing as we tend not to see that too often around here. In the meantime, T is having another colonoscopy, another CT scan, and an MRI. I love that both doctors were very positive and ready to get going on whatever needs to happen. The waiting and inactivity are driving me CRAZY because I need to do something or I'm not making the situation any better, you know? (By the way, who else is picturing a tumor conference as a bunch of tumors sitting around a conference table with their Androids and iPhones? My friend Kristin says the tumors will all attack the free food at happy hour then ask where the nearest Hooters is. Classic!)
Apparently there are pros and cons to each option, and the docs are going to weigh those during the conference. I felt like the first doc was very genuine in her opinion that either option would be viable and they would make what they felt was the best decision in this individual case. That's exactly why I have forbidden T to look up any statistics and studies about stage 3 colorectal cancer: each case is specific to an individual just like his case is only about his cancer and his treatment. I threatened to cut the cable line so he wouldn't have access to the Internet. but when he shuts himself up in his office to work, I have no idea what he's looking at. Coincidentally, we did lose Internet service for a couple of days last weekend, so score for T not being able to torture himself with random numbers!!
I wasn't able to meet the second doc because I was receiving my Radioactive Iodine (RAI) treatment that morning. My dad went with T as a second set of ears, and I'm pretty sure we passed each other in the NMH parking garage as I was leaving and they were arriving. I have been in Isolation 2: The Revenge from Wednesday when I got home at 12:30 PM until this coming Thursday. I'm on day two, and I feel like I want to scream. I miss my kids, I miss my husband, I miss the rest of my family, and I miss my friends. I mean, FaceTime, texting, email, and the phone all are fine, but there is nothing like real contact with the people I love. But I'm keeping my eye on the prize of getting healthy without
harming anyone else.
So, we have seen some forward motion, and I think that has been a great help to us both. We have no idea what the new few weeks or months will bring. Of course, no one really knows that, do they? But we do know we have each other, and that's all that matters.
Thank you again for all the emails, calls, and texts. We treasure all of your thoughts!
Since I last wrote, T has been to a couple of appointments at Northwestern Memorial Hospital (NMH) with some great doctors. We met with a surgical oncologist who put his cancer at a stage 3 and gave us some options. She said she could either do surgery first and then chemo/radiation after or a round of chemo/radiation, surgery, and another round of chemo/radiation. The next day, T was lucky enough to score an appointment with a medical oncologist at NMH with the same opinions as the surgeon. The two doctors planned to present T's case at the next tumor conference next week to see what their colleagues think as well. Doctors who seek opinions of others and voluntarily share information and experiences? Ah-MAY-zing as we tend not to see that too often around here. In the meantime, T is having another colonoscopy, another CT scan, and an MRI. I love that both doctors were very positive and ready to get going on whatever needs to happen. The waiting and inactivity are driving me CRAZY because I need to do something or I'm not making the situation any better, you know? (By the way, who else is picturing a tumor conference as a bunch of tumors sitting around a conference table with their Androids and iPhones? My friend Kristin says the tumors will all attack the free food at happy hour then ask where the nearest Hooters is. Classic!)
Apparently there are pros and cons to each option, and the docs are going to weigh those during the conference. I felt like the first doc was very genuine in her opinion that either option would be viable and they would make what they felt was the best decision in this individual case. That's exactly why I have forbidden T to look up any statistics and studies about stage 3 colorectal cancer: each case is specific to an individual just like his case is only about his cancer and his treatment. I threatened to cut the cable line so he wouldn't have access to the Internet. but when he shuts himself up in his office to work, I have no idea what he's looking at. Coincidentally, we did lose Internet service for a couple of days last weekend, so score for T not being able to torture himself with random numbers!!
I wasn't able to meet the second doc because I was receiving my Radioactive Iodine (RAI) treatment that morning. My dad went with T as a second set of ears, and I'm pretty sure we passed each other in the NMH parking garage as I was leaving and they were arriving. I have been in Isolation 2: The Revenge from Wednesday when I got home at 12:30 PM until this coming Thursday. I'm on day two, and I feel like I want to scream. I miss my kids, I miss my husband, I miss the rest of my family, and I miss my friends. I mean, FaceTime, texting, email, and the phone all are fine, but there is nothing like real contact with the people I love. But I'm keeping my eye on the prize of getting healthy without
harming anyone else.
So, we have seen some forward motion, and I think that has been a great help to us both. We have no idea what the new few weeks or months will bring. Of course, no one really knows that, do they? But we do know we have each other, and that's all that matters.
Thank you again for all the emails, calls, and texts. We treasure all of your thoughts!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)