I get an intermission from Chemo's quiet agonies tempered by emotional support from others. Yesterday was my first completely useless functioning day. The fingertips still feel like each of them was stung by a bee and dipped in dry ice. But my head is clear--which means there's quiet on the battlefield. My coughs are wet coughs not dry ones, partially followed by the report of an aching jaw.
Damn, I hate to think that the first two times I’ve had cancer is a prequel. I endure this like a quiet march.
Yesterday, I was supposed to help out pouring wine at an event, but I couldn't do it, I was exhausted. Plus, I'd have to pour chardonnay and cider--and the hands have suddenly become highly sensitive to a slight chill. On a hat day it's tough to watch people was by with a frothy cold beer and know I can't taste it, and if I tried, all I'd experience was the pain of powdered glass---that's what happens if I attempt to drink anything cold, the liquid suddenly feels like powderedc glass, then tingles and fades like melting snowflakes on a heated windshield. I accept the lingering pain barbed into me.
what's kinda funny is people who come over tome and say, "After hearing what happened to you. I decided to go for an early retirement and enjoy life. I mean you were so healthy and look at you now."
I find that funny: "I'm going to live my life to the fullest," they say, then add to me, "good luck with everything. Thanks."
"Glad to be off help, I think."
What's irritating is oncologist have been doing chemo for many years, yet from what I can see, no significant research has been done to prevent the side effects, which they dismiss as "peripheral damage." I said that's my hands and feet, they're not peripheral, you are." I find myself sometimes having th same difficulties my grandmother had--struggling to open medical bottles, button a shirt, or pick up a flat object like a coin on a table.
They throw a hand grenade of chemo in your body, then run away and close the door, and you go boom.