INFUSION delusion

To say that the night before yet another round of chemo is anxiety-ridden is like saying jumping off a 100-foot cliff is taking a bit of a risk. I can feel the anticipation and dread like a physical gnawing in my gut. I’ve spent the last two weeks prior watching eagerly as the hubby begins to lift a finger, then his head and then his torso from the couch or bed. I watch him slowly sit upright. And stay that way. Then my ears are peeled for a request for some food — any food — (usually larkburger). I see him start to venture out to the porch. Ask the girls a question. Give me a hug. Then — suddenly — he’s back. I see the life emanating from him like a golden halo. And there he is. That guy. “I so love when you’re you,” I said to him this morning as we pulled into the cancer center lot.

“I love when I’m me too,” he said smiling my most favorite grin.

And now, after approximately seven glorious days of hubby-ness, he’s in the chair getting the drip again. Five bags of commingled shit custom-designed to kill the effin cancer, and rob me of my dear little pooper. (Though only temporarily.)

It’s soul-killing to trudge back in — after just returning to life — to go another round with the FU and platinum and leuko and calcium/mag. Even though we know the goal is spot- on, I sit here and stare up at those bags o’poison and can’t help but think they are saying FU to me. (Just a little.)

But now we’re old seasoned salts of the cancer realm. We know everyone’s names. We wave to the other patients in the infusion room. We catch up with Bruce, the volunteer (and resident cancer-survivor). Deb, from the front desk, drops by to see if we need her to pick up lunch for us. We can walk to the lab with our eyes closed. And we can spot a newbie vs. a seasoned vet with a glance. (The no hair is a huge hint. But not the end of the story.)

And today marks the last of the first set of chemo. So although the celebration will be a bit hampered by a sick (and getting sicker) hubby, it’s a milestone. I just might run out yelling WHOOP-DE-DOOP.

I’m trying not to think about the radiation simulation next week. Or the oral chemo pills that are being ordered and will arrive at our house in the next week. (I keep wondering if I’ll need that handy blue hazmat suit to administer them to hubby dear.)

For the record: HE WON. He convinced the doc that wearing bitch-ass-ho (aka chemo pump) for 6 solid weeks will send him careening straight over the edge into the abyss. I’m still not convinced. But it definitely looks like the anti-stubborn pills didn’t take effect in time. Damn.

We also talked through that post-chemo non-hubby-ness and she decided (with my stories of his passing out and falling down the stairs at The James, or in front of his class during various presentations in college and grad school, or in the shower in Vail OR on the spinning bike at the gym as collateral) that he might benefit from IV hydration. So we come back on Thursday and Friday for two hours each time to juice him up. Get the pump off and try to get on with it.

I thought it may be a glorious time to mention that...this shit ain’t even close to over. Here’s our next four or so months in a nutshell:

Oct. 7: Pump off and IV hydration (hubby as slug-bug)
Oct. 8: IV hydration (hubby still not mobile - with hopes of uprightness by Saturday or Sunday-ish)
Oct. 11: Intro session for 7 Steps to Healing (from cancer)
Oct. 14: Radiation simulation
Oct. 19: Meet with Dr. J to review oral chemo plan
Oct. 26th-ish: Start the daily radiation and oral chemo (Xeloda) PAR-TAY
Dec. 7th-ish: Wrap party for daily radiation and oral chemo. Yee-haw.
Dec. 14th-ish: Start chemo infusion up again. And don’t stop ‘til you get enough. Which will be sometime around the end of January 2011.

Happy Effin New Year.

It’s time to start planning a HUGE vacation and bon voyage to ass cancer party. For reals.

We’re home and I really, really want a nap right now. But I’m going to go run and try to breathe some fresh, fall air. And shed this veil of anxiety by sweating it out. Sitting in a cancer center infusion room makes me want to run away. Fast. And some.

Hasta la vista. Baby.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Storm in a Teacup. RHCP. I know you can battle the masses, dear. A tiny storm in your teacup girl. Every other day you say you're gonna have to bury em'.