Part Sixty-Nine: Complaints

            Why am I sleeping so much?  Is it post-radiation fatigue?  Is it fibromyalgia?  Is it the infected tooth?

            Bedtime ranges from eleven to twelve.  I wake up once in the night battling my BIPAP mask, then easily fall back to sleep.  Around 8:30 a.m. I get up rather groggily, my muscles leaden and my joints stiff.  After a light breakfast which is supposed to revive me (the coffee, that is), I slog back to bed and sleep another hour or more.  A shower revives me enough to function.  By the time I’m dressed and ready for the day, eleven a.m. has come and gone.

            It is now 11:48 a.m. and here is what I have accomplished:  I called the oral surgeon for an appointment.  Earlier this week, my new dentist told me that tooth #13 has a broken root and is infected, while tooth #28 is blocking access to the cavity of its next-door neighbor.  Those two extractions fall under my definition of necessary repairs, but the recommended permanent bridge may have to be postponed indefinitely.  VISA is going to be very happy about the interest they will earn on my dental work and hearing aids.

            I have also updated and printed my medication list as well as scribbled down a reference for the Mother’s Day sermon I am supposed to be preparing.  Fortunately, the low tire on my car looks like it will make it through today so I can delay getting it fixed till tomorrow if I so choose.

            In the meantime, I am starting to think about lunch and whether I will need a nap before engaging in any more productive activity today.  Just thinking about getting anything done is making me more tired.  My lower back is complaining, my upper back is putting in its two cents, and my right arm tells me I’ve typed too much.  My forearms are starting to itch, I have a terrible taste in my mouth, and all my teeth are wondering if they are infected, too.  The loud ringing in my ears reminds me that I have not yet put on my hearing aids. 

            In case you haven’t guessed, I have just blogged my complaints.  But at least I’ve gotten something done.  Plus, I’ve figured out the answers to my initial questions: I’m tired.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.

Part Sixty-Eight: Conversation

            Back at the end of January when I started radiation treatments, Dr. Nguyen’s physician’s assistant was gone:  his wife was having their first baby that day, and he had arranged to take his two-week vacation to coincide with the baby’s birth.  The first time I met Curtis, I was sure to ask how his wife and son were doing.  In my ensuing weekly check-ups, it was easy to see that he brought both skill and compassion to his job. 

            Thus, I was looking forward to seeing him at my April 7 post-radiation appointment.  The moment he walked into the exam room, I exclaimed, “Hi!  How’s that baby doing?  How old is he now?”

            Curtis looked surprised and happy to answer my questions.  “He’s 2 ½ months old and so cute.  I love my job, but I’m always anxious to get home after work to spend time with him.  Thanks for asking.”

            After some more conversation, Curtis asked me an array of questions concerning my current health, looked at my right quadrant tan, and did a quick examination of my underarm lymph nodes and my abdomen.  Everything checked out great.  He assured me that the lingering fatigue is normal as well as the occasional sharp stabbing pains in my right breast.

            As he explained that from this point on all my follow-up care will be handled by my medical oncologist and my breast surgeon, I asked if there would be any imaging tests in addition to my annual mammogram.  He said it was possible but not probable.  Sometimes, he added, patients want more imaging because they are worried and want the proof in pictures that the cancer is really gone.

            I laughed and said I wasn’t one of those: “God has really blessed me throughout this whole cancer thing.  From the very beginning, he gave me such peace that worry has not been a problem.”

            With a serious look on his face, Curtis told me, “I consider myself a Christian, but I don’t know that I would be strong enough to not worry.”

            “Oh,” I hastened to explain, “the peace is not from me being strong.  It’s a gift.  I’m usually a worry wart.”

            “Me, too,” he said. 

            We chatted for a little while, and then as I stood to go, he said, “Hug?”

            My heart was spilling over with joy as I left the exam room:  joy over this young father with such a heart of compassion, joy over all the wonderful staff at OCSRI.  I left the building with a big smile on my face.  I’m looking forward to my June appointments with doctors Smith and Moussa.

Part Sixty-Seven: From Head to Toe

            Sometimes my post-cancer-treatment body weighs me down.

            Today that familiar, acrid, slightly metallic taste lingers along my tongue, upper palate, and throat.  Immune to toothpaste, mouthwash, or breath-freshening mints, it stubbornly holds its territory.  I link it with the feeling in my stomach:  not nausea, but not pleasant.  I imagine damaged cells flaking off, leaving another layer of chemo-contaminated cells behind. 

            The soles of my feet started off numb this morning.  Occasionally, pain prickles or nerve tingles hit in random places from head to toe: fortunately, not everywhere at once.  Right now, my arms and legs itch despite the moisturizer I use.  Is the itch neuropathy, allergies, or fibromyalgia?  I don’t know.

            I’m getting used to being lopsided.  The right-side skin, still a bit sensitive, has faded from angry red to uneven tan.  Sometimes ice pick stabs attack that breast, a reminder of the nerve damage that often occurs with surgery.  The lumpectomy and sentinel node biopsy scars have faded into thin lines, but sleeping on my right side still causes discomfort.

            Yesterday, despite taking a morning nap, an early afternoon nap, and a late afternoon nap, I slept well overnight.  (Well, except for my nightly 3 a.m. battle with the BIPAP mask.)  But the day before I took two walks, both several blocks longer than my usual.

            My back and arms, especially the right arm, seem to regard practicing my alto flute as weight lifting.  Yesterday, my back protested after changing my 20-month-old grandson’s diaper--the first diaper I have changed since last spring!  Admittedly, I am more committed to keeping up with flute practicing than diaper changing.

            When my post-cancer-treatment body weighs me down, there are a couple things that help me keep discomfort in perspective.  First, that my pre-cancer body wasn’t so whippy, either.  And, second, that I’m alive to tell the story.

            

Part Sixty-Six: Amateur Status

            I’ve already found out that I do not know as much as I thought I did about breast cancer.  That should come as no surprise.

            After all, I have spent my life on a learning curve.

            For instance, as a college German major, I felt confident my junior year as I embarked on a semester-long stay in Freiburg, Germany.  But the moment I disembarked the airplane in Frankfurt, I discovered that I did not understand a single word of the German spoken to me.  Ten years or so later, as I began graduate studies in English, I was sure that at the end of the two-year program, I would be an expert.  Not so.  The more I studied, the more I realized how little I knew.

            In such a manner, life has continued:  just about the time I start to consider myself a pro in any given field, endeavor, or life experience . . . well, that is the point where I suddenly realize my amateur status.  Because the more you learn, the less you know. 

            A friend of mine started chemotherapy about the time I ended radiation.  To my complete surprise, her chemotherapy regimen is completely different than mine was.  Different types of breast cancer require different types of treatment.  Different people experience different side effects.  Yet, I would venture to say that all breast cancer survivors have a deepened empathy for breast cancer patients.  We’ve been through it.  We know how long and hard the journey is.  We can listen, really understand, and sometimes offer a helpful tip or two.

            I wondered what it would feel like the first time I entered the treatment room as a visitor rather than as a patient.  I wondered if it would be traumatizing.  Nope.  It was a familiar place.  I remembered how it felt to be the person in the reclining chair.  I was happy to visit my friend.  I wish she did not have to go through all that comes with breast cancer treatment, but I am happy to be part of her journey, even though I am no expert.