Third day == heavy day

It's pretty clear now that the third day after chemo is the one where everything crashes for me. It's the day that makes you realize you really have been poisoned. There's no way to "power through" the weariness, as I can do on most other days.

Thank goodness, the Wonder Family did our grocery shopping with impeccable attention to the list I sent them yesterday, when I still had a functional brain. The ice cream got into the freezer right away, but it took me several hours to get the rest of it stowed.

I filed a Patient Safety Incident on-line form with Dana-Farber, and a legal eagle friend in NYC has advised at least discussing this situation with a similar person up here. Just in case. Spouse and I are agreed that we certainly do not want money from them; we just want to know with quite a great deal of specificity how this problem will be corrected.

Actually, what I really want is to sit down with someone in their IT department and find out why they have a perfectly lovely on-line form for safety incidents and are still using a form they expect patients to print out and fill up by hand for new patient info. It makes no sense, no it doesn't.

Till We Have Faces (Warning, this one is religious)

Today I was mistaken for a man. A man knitting a tiny little purple-and-pink child's hat.

I was in the waiting-room of my doctor's office, waiting to see the nurse practitioner who administers my Neulasta shot. The room was crowded with folks waiting for flu shots. One of the ladies sitting by my had Down's Syndrome, and as such people often are, she was quite friendly. We got to talking about this and that, and then an older, rather pleasant-seeming gentleman sat down across from me, and said (but entirely without offensiveness), "Well that's great, a man who knits!"

He was so pleased, I was sorry to disabuse him.

And you know, I really was not offended. Because I am post-menopausal, my face has started to lose its female specificity, and is now, as Ursula K. LeGuin puts it in Left Hand of Darkness a human face, neither male nor female. And with my bulk and no hair, I really could be either, until you see me smile.

And I remember a tiny little Baptist church I visited once in Georgia because it was the closest church to my temporary home. I was the youngest person there by far, and I never went back -- it was one of those places where men and women pray separately because otherwise a man might end up being instructed by a woman's prayer, and that would Never Do. But I clearly remember all the very elderly women, and their deeply kind faces that, other than their hair and earrings, were neither male nor female -- just the face of people who have loved Christ and lived Christ all their lives, to the best of their knowledge.

My knowledge of Christ is very different from that which shaped those lives, but I hope that as I age, I show His face in mine that clearly. And since in Christ there is neither male nor female, why should someone's mistake about which I am matter? And besides, how cool would it be to be a man not embarassed to knit a tiny little purple-and-pink child's hat in public?

The details devil strikes again.

So today I got to meet with the lady in charge of mxing my near-death-dealing potion, and found out that three critical meds -- the ones dealing with my high blood pressure -- were not on her list. No explanation has been forthcoming as yet. I expect to expend significant energy units on this tomorrow.

And the IV was placed in my hand again, it felt better. Unfortunately, what was a great blood return at 8:50 AM was barely there at 11:30 or so, and gave up completely 2.5 syringes in. And it took three tries and an additional expert to get a workable vein going.

The problem seems to be that my veins, in two cases, just said, "Enough!" Not that veins talk. No. They act, rather decisively. The third time, the insertion was too near a place where two veins join. This really restricts the flow of blood out; the IV fluid was pouring in like mad, and the infusion nurse could feel the vein bulge when she put pressure on the line, but no return flow.

They were surprised when I wasn't angry. I'm saving angry for the medication botches.

WOW is a wonderful chemo buddy.

It's strange looking at that there hairy picture.

I'm already used to being bald -- isn't it both strange and wonderful how the mind adapts to changing circumstances? For example, I love to have my face and neck right on the pillow when I sleep, and thus was always thrusting my hair out of the way. No more of that; and I am also enjoying never reaching for the comb or hairbrush after a much, much shorter shower.

Not that I'll be sad to have hair back. But I wasn't expecting to enjoy being hairless at all, and lo, even this cloud has silver tints. And not by Clairol!

I did make it into work, and even managed a small amount of yard work this afternoon. Chemo tomorrow.

No news is no news.

Next chemo treatment is Wednesday, and I am very much enjoying having an extra day or two to feel pretty good (though tired) in. I have even eaten spicy food TWICE.

This time around, I got a sore between two teeth, and the after-effects have proved stubborn. Otherwise, all is status quo. Hair continues to fall out, blood pressure continues to be a little wonky, tiredness continues to continue. I am still trying to drink what feels like inordinate amounts of water. Food continues to taste a little bit funny.

And the Neulasta arrived right on schedule!

Tomorrow, I am going to try and go into work for a meeting. This will be a longer drive than I have tried so far, though not much longer than my weekly Whole Foods pilgrimage.

I ain't nothin' but a houn' dawg...

... sheddin' all th' time.

Today there was some serious molting, and the bare patches spread like a glacier in a new Ice Age. Also, the mouth sores, though not as bad as chemo week 1, are back in a fairly major way. I am not as unwilling to have them, though, as they are alerting me to the state of my immune system.

I've been able to work both days this week, and expect to put in about 19 hours. This will keep me in yarn quite nicely!

Hare today, goon tomorrow.

Yes, that's the punchline from the famous "Little Rabbit Foo-Foo" joke, boldly appropriated by me. Currently:

• Most of the hair is gone, though there's enough left to make the truly bare patches look ...disturbing.
• I have a new appreciation as to why men with short / no hair wear hats. I am wearing one well-nigh constantly.
• On the other hand, when I need some radiational cooling, it's available at the drop of a hat!
• There may not be a whole lot in my head, but there's certainly enough space for whatever's there -- in fact, if I didn't have a pronounced double chin, I'd look quite top-heavy.
• Our smaller kitty has decided that the top of my head is very nice to lean against.

Today was a quiet day, though I did manage to cook a real dinner (sauted chicken breasts in a shallot pan sauce with baked potatoes and broccoli.) And tomorrow, I'm going to try and do some work.