A neighborly day in this beautywood

Channeling Mr. Rogers this morning, I guess. Yesterday (Monday) was a surprisingly great day.  It didn't bode to be such, but it was.

Sunday was marked by neighborhood fireworks displays. (Thanks, Governor Snyder)  These were the kind that go BOOM with no warning and send you flying out of your lawn chair with ice cubes in your lap.  The birds and the squirrels are freaking out and the cats are hiding in the closets.  Even the new City ordinance, which limits fireworks to the days book-ending the Federal holidays and the holidays themselves, plus all the warnings of dry conditions, did not dissuade our neighbors from across the street from expressing their patriotic feelings.  And then their was the personal knowledge that tomorrow (Monday) I was off my chemo holiday and back on the drip.

The chemo holiday had not been as great as I expected. Not taking the horse pills was great but the nausea and occasional vomiting kept reminding me the poison was still in my system and I needed to stay on the anti-nausea drugs regardless of the holiday. And the pièce de résistance was that we noticed that my hair was beginning to fall out.

Now. losing hair has not been such a stress for me because I got used to the idea back in 1981 when it was first quite devastating news to a young, handsome man living in a world where bald was definitely uncool.  I have joked in this blog that losing my hair was no big deal for me and would probably go unnoticed. So it surprised me on Sunday when Mary first noticed the hairs between her fingers after stroking my luxurious band of follicles that ring the back of my head.  Grabbing a pinch of locks myself, they came out quite easily.  A bit later on as I contemplated shaving down to bullet-head, I got quite sad.  I'm in no rush to do that!  It was another cancer reality-check.  It's a visible symbol that telegraphs the suggestion of illness, especially to people who know you have it but are surprised at how good and normal you look.  And then I thought about Michael Jordan.  Maybe I should carry around a basketball.

So that was Sunday.  Monday morning I woke up and cooked myself a 1-egg cheese omelet, checked the weather report and grazed on Facebook until Mary woke up.  She had taken the day off to be my chemotherapy lounge companion.

We arrived promptly at 9:00am and it did not take long to be called in for the blood sample drawing.  It was a poke in the arm and not a draw from my new port.  Dawn was not there but her substitute had a musically, British Isles accent and a winning personality, and the poke, while not up to Dawn's standards, was pretty darned reasonable. And Mary did her job of distracting me perfectly.

The lounge was quite empty and I seized a green lounge chair with a view of the courtyard that I had coveted from previous visits.  Mary only gets a regular chair, and this for a woman who is not a morning person.  She looked exhausted and uncomfortable and I kept telling her she could go back home and take a nap and I would be fine.  Bless her, she stood (or sat) by her man.

Despite the fact that I had been told I would always have the same nurse for consistency, I had a yet a new nurse.  Fortunately, Nurse Joyce was oozing experience and authority.  She was in a zone.  She worked so fast and efficiently that she put me at ease right away; and my vitals showed it.  I had the best blood pressure reading (118 over 85) since Doc Hazle took me off blood pressure meds a month and a half ago.

The moment I had been waiting for finally came.  Hooking up to my new power port.  The area was still bruised and a little sensitive and I wondered how a poke in the chest compared to a poke in the arm.  Joyce prepped me by having me take a deep breath (uh-oh) and count to three. The needle assembly goes in much like pressing a snap on a piece of clothing. a minor poke and it's done.  She taped the tube to my shirt and got the saline flowing.  The reports from my friends were correct.  It was way better than an arm I.V.!

Saline was followed by all the "good" anti-nausea prep drugs and Joyce thew in a syringe of Ativan for relaxing good measure.

My pal Stephen popped in after an early morning fly-fishing adventure and shared his story and some positive vibes.  After he left, Mary picked up some food from the Lacks Center Coffee shop and we shared a sandwich while the dreaded Cisplatin slowly dripped into my veins.

After lunch I started on my "homework".  I've discovered that having a constructive project helps make the time fly.  The WMFVA, whom I do some volunteer website work for, has been patiently  encouraging me to prepare documents planning the next site update.  There are some big changes and I knew it would take a day to write up everything for our web-coder, Jordan.  I love doing this particular work but it taps into an obsessive part of me and once I start, I can't stop until it is done.

I was forced to put the work down for the final stage of the treatment, an Epirubicin push.  It takes just a few minutes from a manual syringe.  It's bright red and makes your pee turn pale red (you are welcome!) and this is also the one that makes your hair fall out.

Mary drove me home and I felt strangely energized.  Maybe it was the "good drugs" or maybe it was my body stepping up to take on the poisonous ones, or perhaps it was the obsession to finish my homework project but my spirits were high.  I had another red pee and the best-bowel movement in four months (you are welcome again!) and I finished my remarkably obsessive web notes to Jordan in time to cook dinner for Marlee before an evening outing.

Grandpa Bob meets Colonel Sanders

That outing was a sad occasion; a funeral visitation for the father of my friend, Teresa (of chocolate pie fame).  Yet I was looking forward to it because Teresa has such good stories and she had promised a great one.  Her dad was Grandpa Bob and you have met him if you ever ate at the restaurant "Granny's Kitchen" in the 70's or 80's. He was the friendly host there for decades.  He was a real charmer and an eccentric nice guy.  His death was a good one... if I can say that.  He died in the middle of a kooky phone conversation with Teresa; kind of instantaneously.  This conversation had followed a remarkable recovery from a recent health downturn and his last few days had been stellar and upbeat.  The full story was quite great but it is Teresa's story and unless she writes it down and I can link to it, you'll have to hear it from her yourself, which is quite possible with a little effort since she speaks about humor and death on occasion in a theatrical setting.

After the visitation, we stopped at a unremarkable little Chinese restaurant nearby for some late dinner.  Mary and I split an order of noodles, which we both thought tasted delicious despite the presentation.  I ate a little more than I thought prudent for the size of my stomach but had no negative repercussions.  I was a little tired but otherwise still felt fantastic.

I swallowed the first of 14 doses of my horse pill poison (Xeloda) without much trouble and we watched HBO ("Veep" episodes) until we fell asleep.  No Fireworks. Relaxed cats at the end of the bed. No nausea. Satisfaction.

Would you be my, could you be my, won't you be my neighbor?