We are getting snug in our bed in the trailer the night before his first dose of chemo and Greg tells me, “I want to show courage and be a role model for my sons as I go through this cancer treatment.” He is being so brave, and while he has not been reticent to share his feelings thus far, this sentiment still astonishes me. It takes me a minute to recover, and as I hold him close tears run down my cheeks.
Lying together, cuddling in the soft, warm sheets and heavy blankets Janine has thoughtfully used to make our bed, I have faith that we will come through this rough patch in our lives better than ever. Already we are seeing things in a new way. Cancer has opened our eyes to so many things we used to take for granted. The little things seem important now; such joy comes from those warm, soft sheets, the stars in the sky, the smell of coffee beans being ground. Thankfulness in the midst of cancer somehow comes easily for both of us. Maybe it’s the outpouring of love and support from our friends that fills all the empty places in our hearts with hope. There are so many blessings.
December 7, 2016. First chemotherapy treatment following third radiation.
Each of us have committed to certain tasks to ready ourselves, and we work in silence to get them done before morning fully breaks. I pack some snacks, our books, the trusty medical notebooks and we load up on warm clothes. We learned from our initiation how patients get very cold during chemo. The drugs have been refrigerated and when they go into the bloodstream he will most likely need a blanket. They keep the blankets in a warmer, so he’ll be nice and toasty, but I bring along his sweatshirt too. We both have on thick socks to ward off the chill. Sometime during his treatment I will take Isabela out for a walk in the hospital neighborhood, so I pack her leash and my gloves, scarf, and hat. The drawing that Lilly made is coming with us too. Deep breath. Ready.
Driving out of Mike and Janine’s driveway, Isabela thinks we are going to take her somewhere for a run, and that’s not what’s happening. Because we are going to the hospital five days a week for seven weeks, I start telling her on day one, “We’re going to take Daddy to the hospital,” thinking that she will get the drift after a few days and stop whining when we drive off everyday. It works after a few days, but not today. Her whining is annoying. Guess we’re both nervous. She settles down as soon as we get into the parking lot to wait for the ferry.
After radiation today we go to the 3rd floor–the chemo floor. The nurses are friendly, yet professional. They make us comfortable with their smiles, assurances and skill. The first treatment will happen in a private room instead of out in the open pod areas, for privacy they explain. Okay, let’s get this going. Greg looks pretty calm, but I imagine his outward demeanor is hiding his anxiety. He usually verbalizes his internal conflicts, thoughts, ideas. Today he is stoic. Neither of us slept very well, which has heightened our feelings of uncertainty. Greg rubs his lips, I keep pushing my glasses up, even when they aren’t sliding down my nose. The unease in my body makes my mind race, and I keep going over and over a check list of today’s possibilities. It isn’t my habit to play What if? That’s always Greg’s job.
Soon he is seated in the recliner and they have taken his vitals and accessed his chest port. Pre-meds have started. These are the medicines that will help his body tolerate the chemo drug, Cisplatin. They are anti-nausea meds, so we cross our fingers they will work.
Sweatshirt courtesy of dear friends from Colorado.
Greg holds Lilly’s drawing to remind us of home, and it provides him with Baja strength.
After an hour, I go back to the car for Isabela. It takes me a minute to don my heavy jacket, gloves, scarf, and hat. She is so excited and happy to finally be getting out, she is pulling on the leash. This is not what she’s supposed to do. Looks like I have some repeat lessons to give. It is difficult and painful for me because my shoulder is in such bad shape. I was supposed to get a complete shoulder replacement next month (January) at the University of Washington; I’ve been waiting for five months already, but both of Greg’s oncologists think I should postpone my surgery, so I have done that. The pain is getting so bad, but I am working on putting it out of my mind. When my dog pulls hard on the leash it’s not easy to “forget” my pain. My issue seems trivial though, and feeling sorry for myself will only give rise to guilt. Wishing to avoid anything negative, I promise myself to stay focused on how I can make things easier for Greg. It’s not always that easy, I’m human after all.
While Isabela and I make a tour of the neighborhood, I am lost in thought. It’s hard not to worry about things. Is our house in Baja okay? No break-ins? How is Greg doing alone up there in that room? How are we ever going to repay our friends for their help? Is the treatment going to work? What if it doesn’t?
Before I know it we are back at the car. Isabela jumps in and I pour her some water, but she isn’t interested. Apparently it’s not easy to work up a thirst in this cold weather and merely being walked on a leash. I leave the bowl full and return to my guy.
He’s got his eyes closed. Good. He’s relaxing. One chemo almost done; six more to go. Soon we will ride the ferry back to Whidbey Island with a contented feeling of accomplishment. One day at a time. One foot in front of the other.
The ferry on a nice day with Mt. Baker in the background.
