So, yesterday I found out that an old work friend died last week of a very rapid form of cancer. I couldn't go to his wake or funeral because of The Immune Issues. Meh. I did have a really good conversation with another old friend in consequence, and am resolved not to wait until anyone else dies before repeating that experience.

And today comes news that one of my cousins was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Her surgery is Thursday. She reads this blog (*waves*), so send good thoughts Martha's way! Her prognosis is excellent, as is mine, and I am pushing through the discomfort that these two bits of news produced.

Survivor's guilt? Quite real. Silly, but real.

Interestingly, though my cousin and I have the same grandparents on one side, her diagnosis is very different from mine. Fast- vs. slow-growing, estrogen-sensitive vs. "triple negative", etc. Quite different genetics at work.

And the computer here is Not Happy. It failed to start, ran Start-up Recovery, and now I am having to scan everything and reinstall more than 150 MB of updates.  Yes, this is a First World problem.

Climbing back out of the chemo hole

Yesterday I managed to do some cleaning and make a decent dinner, and that was it.

Today I've done laundry, cooked, cleaned, knitted, read some law to Bravest, and done a few errands outside of the house. Plus, I deliberately parked further away from where we were going than I needed to, in order to walk further.

My legs were quivering with exhaustion by the time we got home, but nothing that a few hours in the reclining chair didn't cure. Too bad I have to wrestle with the larger of our two cats over Chair Control. He always loses, but he's persistent, which makes sleeping an interesting proposition.

(The cat in question, James Boswell, is just smart enough to know he's not human and to be annoyed about it. Our other cat, McLeod, likes being a cat just fine, and is consequently much easier to get along with. Naturally, I love Boswell best, and spend much time being nice to Cloudy to make up for my poor taste.)

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.