The finish line is finally within sight. And on the other side…a new starting line awaits.
Week 5 of chemo and radiation is in the books. Next week was supposed to be our final week of treatment. Now, it’s not.
On the radiation front, we lost a day due to mechanical error, and we recently learned that from the very beginning, Amy was supposed to receive 33 doses of radiation, not 30 like we were originally told. So the last day of bombardment will be April 12. We’re looking forward to this. The commute is a grind, and as promised, the treatments are starting to take a cumulative effect; most every afternoon, Amy needs a 2-3 hour nap. The best part of the experience—besides the companionship of wonderful drivers—is the $2 parking for cancer patients, which amounts to a $10 –plus discount. To quote Amy: “This is the best kept secret in cancer.”
On the chemo front: the final day of pill popping is a week from today—April 6. But the bummer news we learned is that, after a month hiatus, Amy will begin another regimen of chemo. Instead of taking 140 mg of cancer poison every day, she’ll take 250-300 mg five days every month. One week of intense chemo every month, for about a year. As it is now, the dosage gives her some serious stomach-churning quease, even with the anti-nausea meds. Doubling the dosage… well, that could really be a whole bunch of no-fun.
In general, it was a frustrating week in Cancerland. The honeymoon is over with our doctors. They’re very good, but we did learn last week that one of them, the radiation doc, has been dropping the ball on some aspects of her treatment. For example, Amy is supposed to be having her blood drawn and tested on a regular basis. That only happened for the first time last week. And while we were told we would be meeting frequently with our doctors during treatment, that hasn’t been the case; this past Tuesday, we saw the chemo doc for the first time since Valentine’s Day. All of this is a little dispiriting, although I like to look on the bright side and attribute their negligence to the fact that they know everything is going to turn out just fine with Amy.
Looking ahead, the big marker we’re working toward is the post-radiation/chemo MRI, which will likely happen around April 26. We are praying for zero cancer cells in Amy’s brain.
As for the hair loss… well, she hasn’t gone bald, after all. Her hair has thinned considerably, and the top front third of her head is mostly bald. But everything else is staying put for now. (Amy says: “Think old man hippy—bald on top, long in back. But I look lovely in a hat.”) Those who see it for the first time are a little shocked; at long last, here is visual confirmation that yes, Amy has cancer. But you know, you kinda get used to it. And so has she. After some early days of sadness over her shedding, Amy has adopted a great attitude and sense of humor about it, as you can tell. She is often asked if she plans to shave her head and get a wig. The answer is “Maybe.” Which is an answer that really speaks to what I think is a healthy approach to all this. She has a peace about it—not a resignation, but a peace—and that is an answer to prayer. I’m glad that anxiety or vanity isn’t pushing her around. Perhaps at some point she’ll get a wig—but when she wants to, and when it’s convenient, and no sooner.
In other news, Ben turned six; I got two pink-eye infections and a cold; Lauren is exploding with cuteness; and my parents came down for a lovely stay last week. Now, we look forward to a weeklong visit from Amy’s parents. It’s awesome to be so loved and supported by our friends and family.
Finally, a shout out to our friends Jud and Mandy Ream, who gave Amy a great gift last weekend: a T-shirt baring our pet slogan: “Cancer’s a bitch… and I’m slapping it down!” Amy wears it well.
More soon.
Love to all,
Jeff and Amy
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