Wednesday, June 11, 2008


Yay. Infusion just called me back. I’m to go in on Saturday at 2, for a consultation. I’ll know more about this whole process then, than I know now.

I show up on Monday at 9:30, for what’s scheduled as a three-hour appointment. They’ll hydrate me via IV for two hours, and give me the meds for 20 minutes. So each appointment really lasts 2 ½.

I asked if I’d have trouble driving home (in case I need to); she didn’t know. There’s a set list of side effects, but reactions are individual.

My appointments the rest of next week all start at either 9:30 or 10; I didn’t write down which was when. We didn’t schedule further than that; they want to see how I do.

I don’t want to get morbid about it—but knowing that I have five more days of “normal,” before my body feels radically different for a year, feels very odd. I don’t even want to do anything extraordinarily physical; I haven’t had any emotional energy for weeks. (If I lay still even now, I could sleep.) I have some reading and writing that I have to do. I still want to go to Alameda on Friday—and if I have some time when my papers are done, I might leave a bit early and spend some time in Berkeley. Might take a walk later today, when it cools off, just to feel my muscles move.

I don’t feel like cramming a lot of activity in, though. I’ve been staring at this for so long, I just want to get started.

When I was newer in this neighborhood, and had first heard of the trial I thought I’d be taking, I was fine with the idea of the harsher segment—so I would get sickness and health really wired into my body, and so I would never forget the gifts that the diagnosis gave me. I miss that innocence now. The harsher wing, of that false understanding, was the standard treatment; and it’s what I ended up choosing. It has nothing to do with remembering to be thankful for life—and everything to do with loving this life (on a level deeper than emotional) and wanting dearly to preserve it. I’ve been rewired in ways I’d give back if I could; I breathe fear now, and am never without it. What will it take, to reconnect me with joy?

You’ll say time, and you’re right. And I know that I may have cancer inside me; I equally well may not—and if I do, it’s certainly not immediately fatal. I just never, ever, ever want to be back here.

It’s the uncertainty that gets you. Every damned time. That’s why I’ve been so stressed, when these health professionals’ answers change. I have enough unknowns in my own body. I need my doctors to give me consistent information.

It really can’t be that hard. Can it?


eileen said... shouldn't be that hard.


Padre Mickey said...

Hey, da goils sez "hey!"

susankay said...

"What will it take to reconnect me with joy?"

No, it is not "time" although it can be mistaken for time. It is really Grace and the humbling thing is that one cannot schedule it -- but it WILL come.

Kirstin, I have lived through this period with my love who had cancer and we could not believe that we would ever not think about it every moment. We were wrong.

Episcopollyanna said...

I sure wish I lived down there so I could help you out and go with you to appointments for some moral support.

Just know that you are in my morning and evening prayers. Love ya! (((hugs)))

K said...

You are always in my prayers. I'll be sending them from Texas especially starting Monday. I hope you can feel them, hon. Badmuthagoose

Kirstin said...

"Hey" back, Padre. :-)

Susankay, thank you. That gives me hope.

Lisa, I wish you were here too. Maybe we could both find an oncologist in Oregon? (Ashland's about halfway, LOL.)



...and yes, I can feel them.

susankay said...

Kirstin -- and altho you have probably done this: Check and go to parks and rec for swimming pools -- the one at the high school is for adults and lap swimming only which sounds like a good bet and it's pretty cheap.

susankay said...

I know you aren't looking for exercise a moment but you will

Ann said...

Rest in our prayers.