Etiqueta: side effects

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Mid-season

The final two weeks of treatment were an avalanche of feelings, physical and emotional.

The pain was constant, the nausea worse than ever, pressure in my stomach all the time, exhaustion to such a degree that I could fall asleep at the computer while I was writing, or even standing and talking with someone. I was getting up as much as 7 or 8 times a night to use the bathroom.

On the second-to-last Monday of injected chemotherapy my platelets were low; “continue without exercising for the rest of the treatment,” the doctor said. Two full weeks that I’d need to continue without the training that I enjoyed, without this additional motivation that on many occasions was the highlight of my day.

Soon, while I was holding up under the pain and the desire to vomit, while I was trying and ordering my body, more out of pride than conviction, that it not regurgitate the little I had been able to eat for breakfast, lunch or dinner, the weekend came. Two more days of rest, when I would be able to try and recover and yes, prepare myself to start the last week of treatment.

That weekend before the last week of treatment my wife and my mom’s words of encouragement were interminable, much more than in the other weeks; the visits, the calls, the messages, the good vibes and prayers erupted from every corner of my family and friends, “you can do it”, “it’s the last one”, “you’ve come this far”, “you’re almost done”, “you can’t give in now”. Among all of these phrases of support, one always resonated in my mind; during this whole process my wife, who suffered in silence to stay strong, often told me, “the only way out is through”.

And yes, the only way to cure ourselves and continue ahead is through the treatments, it’s surviving the chemo and radiation therapy, it’s staying strong and not giving up.

An aunt came from Oaxaca just to be there for my last chemotherapy session. Upon seeing me after 5 weeks of treatment, her face couldn’t hide the pain that she felt seeing her nephew so thin, with dark circles under his eyes, tired, worn out, going through something that, like many others, she questions and shouts, “this shouldn’t be happening.” She tried to cheer me up all day on Sunday, probably trying to prepare herself more than me to withstand that last Monday of chemotherapy.

Incredibly, the moment arrived. At one in the afternoon I walked into the hospital to receive what, with all of my faith in God, I hope will be the last chemotherapy session I ever receive. On the way to the hospital I couldn’t believe that the day had come, that finally, I was walking that path, at that time, for the last time in this first stage to overcome cancer.

My cousin was already there when I entered Room 19 – “Oncology”, the same area where other times I had come to accompany my mom in her treatments, in her follow up visits with the oncologist (our family doctor) and where I had wished with all of my strength to never come as a patient. He had already done all of the paperwork for my last session. They put the white bracelet with my name and patient number around my wrist; kindly, the receptionist told me to take a seat, they would call me in a moment.

I sat down next to my cousin. He asked me how I was, “fine, hanging in there” I answered in a joking tone, or maybe not so much. We sat in silence both of us, I don’t really know what went through his mind, but it was certainly something similar to what was going through mine. Will I hold up during the last session, how will my body react after so many toxins and accumulated exhaustion, will…? Minutes later a comment broke the silence, that more than uncomfortable was caring and supportive. My cousin didn’t need to say anything for me to know that he was there for me. “My aunt and Rose are here,” he said, “too early” he complained, we knew already that they wouldn’t let all three join me in the session and, obviously, none wanted to stay out in the lobby during these last three hours of treatment.

Upon arriving, my wife gave me a warm kiss and said, “I’m here if you need anything darling, everything is going to be fine”. My aunt, with her eternal fondness for me said, “I’m here my little son”. We sat together, the four of us looking at each other, and silence once again invaded the room. We were all concentrating on our own thoughts when the nurse announced my name and invited me into the other room. I jumped from my seat, taking a deep breath to gather the little strength I had left in that sixth week. The faces of the other three were cold, trying to hide the fear and nerves that invaded their hearts at that moment, wishing with all their strength and love that everything would be alright, but always with the eternal fear and mistrust of not knowing what would happen.

After weighing me, taking my vital signs and preparing all of the equipment, my treatment started. A Monday that for me marked the end of a treatment that I hope the people I love never ever have to experience. But at the same time it was the start of something new, something different. I can’t talk about a rebirth because that would be poetic and absurd; no one can be reborn. But it was a Monday when many things about the old me changed, died in that chemotherapy room, in order to take a step towards a new version of myself that I hope and trust will be better in many ways.

15 minutes after me, they let my aunt and cousin in. How they arrived at the arrangement that my wife would give up her place at the beginning so my cousin could be with me I don’t know, I suppose that my illness also reached the hearts of my whole family, so they were able to talk about things and organize themselves without fighting or disagreements. (Really, I insisted on waiting outside because I spend a lot more time with Mario than the other two. Later, his cousin insisted that I go in and he waited outside. –Rose) My aunt was once again unable to contain her expression of worry and frustration upon seeing me connected to the cables and pumps that injected the chemicals into my body, little by little.

That day passed without any surprises, aside from the side effects of the last five Mondays before and the exhaustion that was even worse that day because of the accumulated effect of the injected chemotherapy, the radiation and the oral chemotherapy. The really surprising thing was when the week passed and my body responded in a way that none of the doctors, or even my family, expected. There was nausea, but even so, it was less than in the fifth week; the pain in my stomach was not as intense as earlier weeks; I had light-headedness and headaches, but nothing out of the ordinary. My body was probably just as excited as I was to be in the last week of treatment.

In spite of this good response, there was a point of conflict during the week that came very close to making me collapse, finishing off the little strength I had left to give each day to the last radiation sessions. On Wednesday, when I was finishing my radiation session, the doctors told me there had been a mistake, “we calculated the sessions incorrectly” they said. I clearly felt my strength leaving me, as my courage and will to keep fighting were lost. At that moment, I felt rage, anger, hate, I wanted to scream, to insult and even to hit the doctors. It’s easy for them to just say that they made a mistake and that I’d have to go to more sessions than the ones my mind trusted I would. “We’re in session 24, not 25” they said. I know that many of you, mainly those who are fortunately not going through a similar procedure, might feel relieved to read that it was just one session, that the mistake wasn’t “so serious” and it would only cost me one more day.

However, all of you who are suffering the treatments day by day, you will understand, or rather you will feel, the same frustration as me. One more day of treatment makes too much of a difference; it’s one more dose of oral chemotherapy added to the radiation session. It’s one more day of attacking my body and hurting it. It’s one less day to recover, it’s one day less to say “I survived the treatment”. It’s one more day that can destroy us psychologically. After giving me this information they asked if I wanted the session to be on Saturday to finish up that week, or on Monday to have my usual two days of rest. Obviously I chose Saturday. What I wanted was to finish and never see that damn blue corridor again.

Saturday arrived, at 12:30 I crossed for the last time, again my faith in God makes me believe this, that damn blue corridor. For the last time they laid me down on the cold slab inside the isolated room. For the last time they moved me, pulled and adjusted however they wanted to line my body up with the x-ray. For the last time I left that area and greeted don Jose, who said goodbye with even more pleasure and spirit than usual, wishing with all his heart that he would never see me again in that blue corridor.

When I left, my wife was waiting for me in the black chairs, in that same place where she had lived and survived with me 28 days of treatment. She jumped up from the chair and walked towards me. “The last one darling, you did it.” I couldn’t answer, I hugged her, I held on to her as though I was never going to let her go, I put my head on her shoulder and I cried. I cried with pleasure, happiness, faith, gratitude to God and my grandmother who is in heaven and who walked with me every day from the office to the hospital, with gratitude for my wife and my family, for having survived. I cried just because I can still cry.

The treatment sessions concluded this week. Finally, I can really take a rest from those chemicals and x-rays that my body received for 28 days. I know this is barely half of the road, that I still need to have analyses to be sure that the tumor has been reduced substantially or even disappeared, which would be the best case. I still need to schedule the surgery, based on the test results. I still don’t know how aggressive it will be. I still need to get through the operation and recovery.

But I also need to keep living, to enjoy the moments life allows me to have. I still need to keep loving my wife. I still need to keep loving my mom and all of my family. I still need to travel. I still need to learn. I still need to be a better person. So I’m going to continue fighting and surviving.

The first part of this long and painful process is over, but my contact with you is not. This blog will continue. I’ll update it with the processes that are to come, and I’ll keep supporting you with my words, in case they are worth something. This blog will continue to exist to give us a human perspective of what we live through while we’re surviving cancer.

Remember that each of you can be a survival story, we can all say that at the end only one was left and it was us. If it helps, know that you have my support and prayers, they all add up. We continue to SURVIVE this illness in order to keep LIVING afterwards.

March 13, 2017

Mario

Publicado en

Fourth

4 full weeks of treatment, Monday through Friday; 24 hours of nausea; only 3 to 4 hours of sleep; getting up 5 or 6 times each night. 4 weeks of wearing down, of worry, of anxiety.

The treatment continues to be more difficult with each day. The fatigue accumulates; the body doesn’t fully recover with the few days of rest. Each time there is more death inside; more cells that are lost, white blood cells diminished, pounds lost, additional organs affected.

One of the most difficult blows of this fourth week was having to lose my training. I was left without B-63 until the treatment is finished. While I was injected with the chemotherapy on Monday, February 20, the doctor informed me that my platelets (responsible for the production of white blood cells and regulating coagulation) were at worrisome levels. Compared to the level of platelets a healthy body should have, I had less than a third.

I was informed of the risks of hemorrhages, open wounds and injuries that the body would not be able to arrest or heal, since the production of cells that help with coagulation was seriously diminished. The result: any exertion could cause a hemorrhage, external, or more seriously, internal, that could cause a lot of complications and, for this reason, I was order to stop attending my daily training sessions.

As you’ll remember, B-63 had become a motivation for me. An aspect of my life that helped me to remain cold, objective, with my mind fixed on the result; a way of showing myself that my body and mind can still reach goals that seemed impossible. In that moment I realized, once again, that I’m sick; that even though I want and try to hold on to with all my might, I CAN’T live my “normal” life as though nothing were happening. My body was demanding rest and I didn’t want to listen. I was so focused on trying to live a “normal” life, that I forgot to pay attention tot he signs my body was showing asking for a pause in the excessive effort that I subjected it to.

That’s when I realized that the concept of “normal” is a lot stronger than I wanted to realize. The implication of the word goes much further than it’s simple meaning. We hear the word and immediately think of the context that we have pre-programmed of what is “normal”. Is being healthy normal? Is exercising normal? Is being tall, short, white, brown, Catholic, married, gay, normal?

I am undergoing one of the most aggressive treatments that man has created to treat an illness, and I am not just talking about the type of chemotherapy that they are giving me, or whether it is combined with radiation therapy. What I am trying to transmit to you is that cancer treatment is in itself one of the most aggressive. It consists in injecting a person with a series of chemicals focused on killing the cancer cells, but what we often don’t realize is that the sick cells share almost exactly the same genetic structure as the rest of our cells. So, the idea of the treatment is to kill all of the cells that act like cancer cells, which means that little by little, day by day, they are also killing us on the inside, in the hope that the cancer cells die before the rest of the body. This sums up the treatment: play with the combination of chemicals that are more aggressive against the cancer cells than to the rest of our cells, hoping that the first die before the second, and thus we survive treatment.

When I realized this, I was forced to accept that for me, in this moment, feeling tired, sad, unmotivated, unable to exercise, suffering from low levels of platelets, is my new “normal”. That trying to live my life as though nothing were happening, was maybe just a self-defense mechanism to try to ignore a reality that I never wanted. I have cancer and suffering the effects of the treatment is NORMAL.

After this blow and the exercise of accepting it, as always, the calm came. I understood that it is NORMAL that I can’t exercise; normal that I am nauseous all day every day; normal that my wife, my mom, my family and my friends are worried every day about how I am doing; normal that the people who know what we are going through are available and try to help, even if only a little, with our recovery, in any way that they can.

I understood why I no longer enjoy those 20 minutes that I walk every day from my office to the hospital to receive treatment. I understood why, in spite of having the good fortune of working in my favorite neighborhood in the city, full of restaurants, shopping malls, parks, people, pets, joy, music, bars and atmosphere, it didn’t cause the same reaction of happiness each day. I understood that the fact that people pass by you in their cars, on their bicycles or walking, completely unaware of what you are living through and probably not caring, is NORMAL.

But this normality also opened my eyes to another reality that I had forgotten, even though I always thought that because of my personality I never would. I am talking about empathy; that human characteristic that allows us to identify with the suffering, the worries, motivations and emotions of others. In those 20 minutes that I walk each day – due to my conviction, not necessity – I have learned to appreciate the little details that show empathy between us. Why someone shows gratitude to a driver or cyclist who stops to let them pass when crossing a street; or the person who stops just to say “good afternoon”; the person who takes 5 minutes out of their busy day to help someone else cross the street or recover a fallen object. In that moment, you realize that this characteristic, which is rarer by the day, is something that can make us appreciate the world more and be better.

I have seen that it’s not necessary for everyone to know what I’m going through, or to read these lines, or be interested in my case, to show empathy. But those 20 minutes each day have helped me to appreciate all of the caring and empathy of those who do, every day.

The fourth week has definitely been the worst up to now, Wednesday and Thursday continue to be the most difficult, since that is when the treatment is at it’s highest point. But at the same time, those are the days when I receive the most support.

I am starting the last two weeks of the initial process to combat the cancer with my hope recharged, with the dream that the end could be near. The strength and motivation aren’t fully renewed, but I continue, in this daily fight to reach the end when only one remains, US.

Mario

March 1, 2017

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Poor Darling

We’re walking back to his office from the hospital.  It’s hot; the stretch of Ejercito Nacional where the hospital is has few trees, and no shade at 4 in the afternoon.  The sun reflects off of the plywood wall that has been erected to block off the construction site on the other side.  We are both sweating, even Mario under his sweater.  We always hold hands as we walk, but not today.  Too sweaty.  She sees us from 20 feet away, and greets us both enthusiastically: “How are you? Are you back in Mexico permanently?  Mario, you’re so thin! Congratulations.”  We used to work together, all three of us, a long time ago.  She remembers Mario 10 or 15 kilos heavier – it’s always been hard for him to lose weight, until now.  We walk in silence after we say goodbye to our friend.

We’re in the elevator, on the way home.  Two coworkers are in the elevator with us; “You look thin,” one says to Mario.  “I’ve been working out,” he replies, like it’s nothing, with a smile.  “Looking good,” the other replies.  Mario smiles, he says thank you.  He says good bye with a handshake and a slap on the back as the other gets out of the elevator.  The doors close and Mario turns to me.  “Sometimes it’s so hard to keep smiling,” he says.  He hangs his head, dropping it onto my shoulder, and I put my arms around his shoulders and neck, and massage the back of his head, and say, “my poor darling.”

What else could I possibly say?  This is something I say a lot these days.  When we are at home, and he falls asleep in the overstuffed chair in front of the television while watching a soccer game.  When I walk into our room and find him laying on the bed, pale, lacking either the will or the strength to drag himself up – I can’t tell which.  I sit on the bed and stroke his forehead.  Every day he is paler.  His shoulders are narrower, his arms are thinner.  My poor darling.

We are leaving the hospital.  I ask if he has completed the radiation – if he resisted the urge to run away from the blue corridor.  He says yes, “barely.”  I look at his face and I realize that he is not joking, he does not smile and his expression is completely serious.  “We aren’t supposed to be here,” he says then.  “You mean you’re not supposed to be sick?”  “Yes. It’s not fair.”

No, it is not fair.  But life is not fair sometimes.  Sometimes things just happen.  Sometimes bad things happen, a lot of bad things, to good people who have no idea what they’ve done to deserve this punishment.  But the things that happen in life aren’t supposed to be fair, or unfair, they’re not intended to be a punishment, they just ARE and we’re left with one option only: to cope any way we can.

So I say, “poor darling,” and I wrap my arms around him and I wish with all my heart that I could make it go away, somehow protect him from all of the hurt.  I make lunch every day, I take it to the hospital, I wait on the black pleather chairs for him to emerge from the blue corridor.  I stay nearby in the afternoon, just in case, and then we drive home together.  I make quesadillas for dinner and tell him how proud I am when he manages to finish 2, with no hunger and in spite of the nausea.  I stand in the kitchen, eating ice cream from the carton, and I suddenly realize how hard it must be for him to face this with a smile – the symptoms of his treatments are becoming more apparent, and friends who think they are being supportive congratulate him for it – and my heart breaks a little more.

Rose

February 22, 2017

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Half Time

I’ve walked down the blue corridor in the basement of the hospital where the radiation equipment is kept 16 times. 16 distinct moments each day when the nurses, the doctors, the security guard, greet me.

They take my vital signs each day, to keep track of how my body is responding. They lay me down on a cold metal and plastic table inside a carefully sealed room, to make sure there are no radiation leaks. They cover me with blankets and comforters so I don’t get so cold. They move me every possible way to line up the tattoos they made to mark the exact point where the x-rays should enter. “We’re going to start now, please don’t move,” are the last words the doctors say each day before starting the radiation sessions.

Those 30 minutes that I spend alone, receiving the x-rays, seem eternal. My mind soars, it betrays me, my feelings get stronger, sometimes I cry, sometimes I smile, sometimes I lament.

On more than one occasion while I’m walking down the blue corridor I’ve thought about turning and running, escaping and never returning. Often it’s enough to repeat certain activities 2 or 3 times for them to become routine in our lives. Not this time. Not when you know that each time you get to the end of the corridor and enter the radiation chamber, a little bit of you is worn down; it dies a little bit at a time. And I’m not talking about the cancer, I wish it were only that damned tumor that we never wanted in our lives to begin with. No, I’m talking about the rest of the cells, I’m talking about the layers that cover part of our body and protect us, I’m talking about the skin, I’m talking about all of the side effects of the treatments. When you think of what you are living through, it is impossible for the blue corridor to become routine. Moreover, we pray to God that it never becomes routine.

Don Jose, the security guard in charge of the radiation chamber greets me with an incomparable smile. “Good afternoon, how are you?” he asks every day, maintaining a positive attitude towards life, towards the people that he sees worn out, weak, suffering; even so, he smiles. Don Jose helps us to keep our spirits and hope alive. He always gets up from his chair, takes his cane, and approaches each patient to extend a warm greeting, a handshake that reminds you YES, YOU CAN DO THIS. In spite of all the years he has been watching over the corridor, all of the patients he must have seen, and all the ones that he never saw again because they are no longer with us, in spite of these experiences that are part of his life even though they are not his own, Don Jose keeps smiling and greeting, trying to bring a little cheer to each of us that walk that damned blue corridor.

This third week was hard. The chemotherapy attacked me much more aggressively than the previous weeks. They continue to be “normal” side effects according to the doctors. My body and my mind were on the brink of falling; I wanted to quit, I wanted to give up when all of the smells, all of the flavors, all of the images made me want to throw up every 10 minutes. Afterwards, I remembered the 30-minute routine, and I pulled myself up.

I held on to life once again, to my passion for my work, my love for my wife and my family, and all of the pleasures and moments of happiness that life gives us, and I pulled myself up. “I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE” I tell my wife; I’ll be here for many more years, pestering and enjoying those little moments that the cancer has taught me to enjoy once again.

“You can fall down, cry, complain, curse with me darling, but don’t stop the treatment,” are the words of my wife, which she repeats every time she sees on my face an expression even close to tired. My mom knows I’m strong, she’s proud of my ability to withstand the treatments, but at the same time her expression reflects worry, pain, desperation. Each of us is fighting a constant battle against our feelings and thoughts; each tries to stay strong in their own way and in their role. Each part of the strength that our loved ones show while they walk this weary road with us recharges us and allows us to continue on.

At work things continue on their course; the people who know what’s going on do their best to treat me as though cancer didn’t exist (although they can’t keep from their minds the thought that it’s there and we have to wait). At B-63 the encouragement and cheering continue from the ones who know, and from the rest the same treatment as always, the friendship that this community has permitted me to create.

This week was the one that, up to now, I have most wished for the weekend to come, which is my rest from the chemo and radiation therapy. I needed a break, to regroup and continue on. I realize that we don’t have to be strong all the time, we don’t have to hold our heads up every day, but we do have to continue on, convinced that we are stronger than the cancer, convinced that at the end of the road, only ONE with remain, and it will be US.

Hold on to life, find that motor, that motivation that makes you feel alive and happy. That force is the one that will get us to our goal.

Mario

February 20, 2017