Behan here...breaking in to share a little about last week. I went with Joan to Swedish for the first of her post-mastectomy chemotherapy treatments…and offer here my perspective on the day, her journey, and in counterpoint to the challenges—some of the wonderful bright spots that have appeared in her life.
the “chemo day” process
There's a stunning amount of Nothing that takes place on these treatments. That sounds benign, doesn't it? It's not. On one hand, the cancer center is as easy on the eyes as I think it could possibly be...honey colored warmth of wooden floors, peaceful paintings of Northwest landscapes, languorous tropical fish drifting in large tanks. All signs point to RELAX. But we are there for a purpose: to beat the cancer, on a marathon that has had just had additional miles tacked on before the finish line.
The routine runs like this: check in, and wait in Benign Lobby #1 for the Lab to call her to get an external line connected to her portacath (Joan has a port installed under the skin on her torso, to give a direct line to her veins for treatment: it’s an alternative to hooking up to an IV for the drips that is faster and less uncomfortable). Return to Benign Lobby #1 and wait to be called for consultation with her oncologist, Dr Goodman. Move to Benign Lobby #2, and wait for nurses to call you for treatment. Transfer to treatment room, hook up to drip and wait while drugs course into her body.
There's a lot of time to think about where you are, and why you're there.
last week's visit
Joan led me through her routine, one I got the feeling she could have done blindfolded. I waited with the guilty pleasure of trashy magazines while her portacath was connected in the catacombs of the lab- "It's not a pretty." She wanted to protect me.
Dr Goodman had time for all questions. He talked about this new drug Joan's starting for this course of chemotherapy, Navelbine- it's hoped, if not expected, that this primary drug for the round she's beginning will make for an easier experience than the hard core AC she had to deal with for most of this year: less likely to induce nausea, less impact to her immune system. We laugh over little ironies: side effects of one drug in the mix include constipation; of another, diarrhea. I cannot begin to recall the lineup of meds being discussed to alternately tackle the cancer, and deal with the side effects…I marvel at how she does.
It's a Thursday afternoon, and things are a little backed up. We end up waiting considerably more than expected in the lobby adjacent the rooms for getting her chemo drip. Here, the weight of why were here presses down harder. Everyone in this room fights the cancer battle, and there’s no chance of compartmentalizing to stow away the realities that exist. Joan’s anxiety is palpable…I turn into a silly blabbermouth, wanting to say anything I can, tell whatever silly story hits my brain, to avoid mentally spiraling on the vibe of this sun-dappled room. When Rainer arrives to wait with us, Joan’s relaxation is palpable: his presence a gift for her peace of mind.
now what?
This cancer is truly ugly. As I understand it, the cells- microscopic little tubes- are floating around in her bloodstream, looking for a place to set up shop. For all the agony of her AC, it probably didn’t do much to help: there were more lymph nodes taken during surgery last month than anticipated, and growth in her breast that did not line up with the PET results.
The new therapy is an anti-microtubule agent, aligned specifically against this version of the enemy in her system: not just preventing the cells from collecting in any place, but removing them altogether by preventing replication. But their continued presence and growth is was not what was expected. Despite a clear path for treatment, to be told there is a longer journey ahead feels crushing.
bright spots
Lest this sound too gloomy, I want to share that for all the challenges—there are some glorious bright spots in Joan’s life right now.
This rockin’ woman been promoted at work. Who else can go through this intensely challenging personal battle, juggle it with motherhood and a full time job, and end up with a promotion?! She continues to amaze me.
And, she and Rainer have added to their family- Joan’s niece, Ashley, joined them in June. Ashley has moved from out of state, and is preparing to spend her last year of high school on Bainbridge. From the outside, it’s easy to question how they could add to their household right now- but Ashley feels to me like an unexpected gift. This is a girl who is lovely from the inside on out, and who in her short time so far has already done so much to make their lives easier at home.
keep on keeping on
There are 23 more weeks of chemo for Joan. For her friends keeping up through this blog, one of the best ways you can help is by coming with her on chemo days. And if you’re far away, consider “coming” by being present to her from afar: send jokes via email, mail stories to read in the waiting room, offer some light and distraction on these days of waiting.
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