Toes in the sand

I was thinking that after my last chemo, 3 months ago, that I was on my road to recovery, all down hill from that point. WRONG! What I have found out is that I'm still in the repair mode. The chemical cocktail that was slowly infused weekly, continues to reek havoc on my body. If you are going through chemo and expect to "bounce back" once the chemo is discontinued. Don't!

The 14th of July - Another cancer milestone, my three month post-chemo CT scan. Again, those same negative thoughts worm around in my brain. Will it still be NED (no evidence of disease) or will there be cancer hot spots? It really sucks getting the scan and then having to wait. Waiting sucks. The doubt sucks. The whole thing sucks. Ok Cathie, stay focused on the moment. Don't let you mind and doubts control your thoughts. Stay in the moment. Ok. Ok. Ok.

The week prior to the scan I was not feeling myself. I kinda felt like I had a small case of the flu or something. Just a general "I don't feel right" kinda feeling. What does it mean? Has the cancer spread? The negative thoughts again. When will this end? Stay focused on the moment. That night, I awoke to intense pain in my chest, neck, upper back and left arm. So bad that I cry. No, sob is a better description. It hurts and hurts bad. The next morning, Rand makes me an appointment with our family doctor. He starts thinking that there is some kind of problem with my port. I hope with all my being that is correct, but...... what if?

While at the appointment, we find out that he (Doctor Reese) can access the results of the CT scan. The report states that there are two blockages in my clavicular vein. Well, that explains the pain and relieves my mind. The other big news, which arrived a whole week earlier than expected was that I was still NED. I feel elated, though the port problem still ached. Dr. Reese makes an appointment for me with Dr. Martin's office the next morning. Dr. Martin performed the port placement and Dr. Reese felt it was best for him to make any determinations on treatment and possible removal. He gives me some pain meds and we go home.

The next morning we go to Dr. Martin's office. He reads over the CT scan. He echos the findings that we learned the day before. He develops a plan of action on correcting the blockage. He's not ready to remove it at this point and feels that we can dissolve the clots. "Will they break lose and kill me?", I ask. Not very likely. I'm still nervous about the clots. I'm happy about the scan results. It is that negative/positive, yin/yang of this whole cancer experience. Later, Rand consoles me. He states that if Dr. Martin felt there was a chance that this issue was life-threatening that he would plopped my butt in the hospital. He is right, I know, but the clots still consume my thoughts. Even when I will them not too.

I am now recovering from 2 clavicular vein blood clots, still having some swelling and puffiness from the steroids, having days of feeling sickie, peripheral neuropathy (chemo induced) still an issue and now on medication (Neurontin) which is helping. I'm still depressed at times, still have episodes of fear and tears. I was talking to Rand last night and told him that if I was stranded in the middle of the ocean on a boat and finally found my way to land, I would feel elated when my toes touched the sand. I wish I felt that kind of elation when I was told my CT scan came back NED but, I didn't. I was happy and afraid, hopeful and also felt a sense of doom all at the same time. I know that if I had been told there were "hot spots" on the scan, I would have been devastated, why could I not feel the same enormity of emotion in elation? Somewhat sad I think. I compare myself to an alcoholic. Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. Once cancer, always cancer. I suspect that survivors of ten years still feel what I feel today. Hopefully, in ten years I'll be able to tell you.

The photo that I included in this post is one of my favorites. It's Rand and I on the beach at Isle of Palms, SC a few weeks ago. We took this vacation after a long year of hardship. It was our celebration vacation for "making it". We walked on the beach in the evenings, we chased the waves, dug our toes in the sand, examined the night sky, talked to strangers (or are they?) held hands, talked, laughed, drank margarita's and listened to musicians with their tip jars at their feet as they played JT and Cat Stevens. What a special time.

This photo says many things to us. After a really tough year, we're still standing. That I'm much more tanned than my husband. That we are still connected. That my foot rests upon his, as I've leaned upon him through these last trying months. That we've finally found land on which we can stand. Though, it is sandy land and the waves of life hint to possibly eroding it. Much like our life now in this post-chemo world.