Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!

Not quite yet , but when I'm disconnected from my chemo pump on Thursday morning, I will be free at last. Hopefully, chemo free! Hopefully, cancer free!

It's hard to believe that I've almost finished all 12 bi-weekly chemo treatments. They started March 1 and here we are Aug. 2 and almost done. In many ways its been easier that I expected. In other ways, harder.

Some things I have learned:

"Chemo Brain" is real!

I've known there were side effects. Hyper sensitivity to cold in my hands, feet and mouth; bathroom issues that have made me think of buying stock in Imodium; incredible fatigue. I've attributed other issues — can't find the right word, "(almost) senior moments," general klutziness — to stress. But during the previous treatment, I overheard three fellow chemo guys talking about "Chemo Brain." Sure enough, when I Googled it that night, it's an actual clinically observed side-effect. The Mayo Clinic lists these symptoms:

• Being unusually disorganized
• Confusion
• Difficulty concentrating
• Difficulty finding the right word
• Difficulty learning new skills
• Difficulty multitasking
• Fatigue
• Feeling of mental fogginess
• Short attention span
• Short-term memory problems
• Taking longer than usual to complete routine tasks
• Trouble with verbal memory, such as remembering a conversation
• Trouble with visual memory, such as recalling an image or list of words

Signs and symptoms of cognitive or memory problems vary from person to person and are typically temporary, often subsiding within two years of completion of cancer treatment. (Two years? Oh boy!) My latest Chemo Brain moment was when I sprayed Windex on a glass tabletop, then went off to another task without wiping it off. Fortunately, Amanda — my "keeper" — was following behind me so no harm done.

There are crises, then there are CRISES!

Surprise divorce is a crisis. Cancer is a crisis. Moving certainly has crisis potential. Other things, not so much. Delayed flights, unexpected car repair, broken AC — these are NOT crises! Yes, such an issue can be complained or worried about, then I need to Just Get Over It! The Serenity Prayer has become my guideline for life's issues and life's CRISES!

The health, happiness and well-being 
of my kids rocks my world!

OK, I'm smart enough to know that you can't let your world revolve around the happiness of others. But I recognize the joy I get from knowing that 23 years of parenting (soon-to-be ex shares the credit) has produced two level-headed, well-rounded kids. Are they perfect? No. But they do light up my life.

Allow me to brag:

Amanda has had three jobs in the seven months she's been home. They haven't all been picnics. The first was a part-time child care job where she saw first-hand the problems created by a disengaged parent. She came to dislike the job, but she had made a commitment though mid-July and she stuck with it. She's even continuing with occasional weekend / evening work with the family, just to stay in touch with the kids. (Small doses!) Her second part-time job was with a tech start-up. Her dad's and my antenna went up early with her tales: showing up at 8 a.m. at the boss' directive and finding no one else paying attention to the new starting hours; going from "you're one of our best employees" to "you're fired" in a matter of weeks (she talked her way out of that!); and management by threat "if you dont' all ... you're all fired." She started a new full-time job last Friday — another tech start-up, but this one seems to be managed by normal people. I know she'll do great, and I'm proud of her initiative and perserverance in a lousy job market. She's also been a great help and comfort to me during the recent ups and downs of life.

Nathan is finishing up a 10-week stint in a wood-bat baseball league in Ohio. His defensive play has been awesome, but his batting average during the first half of the season was below the "Mendoza Line." After his first two weeks, he blogged: "If there’s one thing I've learned from my first two weeks here: I really better make sure I pay attention in class my senior year because its pretty clear that any kind of baseball career isn’t going to work out." It was heart-breaking to read because I know how much effort he has put into baseball. It would have been so easy to give up — physically or emotionally — but he hasn't. He's set up up an intense work-out schedule for himself (and is looking really buff, if moms are allowed to notice such things). He's showed up for every game ready to play, or cheer his team from the bench. His hard work is paying off: For the last 30 days, he's batting a respectable .342  — including a three-RBI triple to win the Aug. 2 game. If Nate's got his heart set on baseball, I hope baseball works out for him. But even if it doesn't, the lessons he's learned — and taught himself — about individual and teamwork will pay off in spades no matter the life / career path he follows. Nate has been in school or in Ohio for most of my trials, but he, too has been a great help and comfort to me — albeit remotely.

If I had three wishes for them:

1. I wish they would make the effort to build a better relationship. Siblings are traditionally life's longest-lasting relationships. They have this approach to each other that alternates between "sniping" and "ignoring." Perhaps like wine, their relationship will improve with age.
2. I wish that our divorce won't cause lasting trauma in their lives. Just because their dad and I are divorcing, doesn't mean their future relationships are doomed. Mark has said he doesn't think the divorce will affect them much. Personally, just because they're not toddlers or adolescents prone to acting out their emotions doesn't mean they aren't busy coping with them. IMHO.
3. I wish they will always keep the lines of communication open. Parenting doesn't end with college graduation. I hope they know their dad and I will always have their backs. Yes, we will continue to give unsolicited (and perhaps unwanted) advice. But after a certain age / milestone (college graduation), that advice is given as "wisdom of our years", not mandates they must follow.

Thanks to all of you who have followed my blog and chimed in from time to time.  Each person in my life (local or remote) has given me a sense of friendship and well-being through all this. Couldn't have done it without you!

Long time, no blog

Boxes are still running my life. You'd think that four-plus weeks after the move, I'd be unpacked and settled in. Hasn't happened yet. I guess I've got a good excuse. In my usual perfect timing, I came down with a sinus infection five days before the move. Antibiotics knocked it back pretty quickly, but not before the infection wiped me out. That and yet-another round of chemo — this one on the heels of the move — knocked me back into last year. Usually, the Tuesday to Thursday chemo leaves me fatigued through Saturday. This time the whole weekend came and went and I did squat. Just opening a box took enough out of me that I'd either sit for a while or, more likely, take a nap. Even Sparky got tired of napping!

I did finally start to feel better by the following weekend, but then it was time to gear up for another round of chemo. The good news is I now have eight rounds under my belt and only four to go. Boxes will be in my life as long as they need to be.

Things chemo, moving and divorce have taught me:

We lived a very peaceful life in Dove Canyon for nearly 15 years. Maybe too peaceful. It was the kind of neighborhood where you pulled your car into your garage, closed the door and cocooned in your house or back yard, rarely to be seen. If I hadn't been an avid (if sporadic) gardener, I doubt I'd see a neighbor for days. So I've enjoyed rediscovering the sounds of life that occur in my rental townhome. Kids actually play outside. Sirens whiz down Lake Forest Parkway. Even the occasional rumble of my neighbor's home theater sound system doesn't bother me. An added bonus: An ice cream truck cruises the neighborhood like clockwork at 5 p.m. each day. I'd forgotten there were such things. (So far, I've resisted temptation.)

I am ready for chemo to be done. My platelet count is low, so every little bump becomes a major bruise. I know I should be thankful that chemo has gone as smoothly as it has. Aside from the fatigue during chemo weeks, my other big side effect has been thinning hair. How bad is it? Let's just say I keep a lint roller by my bed so I can swipe clean my pillow each morning. I know I should be thankful that I still have hair — however sparse — all over my head. At least it's not like breast cancer chemo which leaves most women temporarily bald. However, it drives me a little crazy that Nate has taken to shaving his head. If he doesn't want that hair, I'd take it! The good news: It takes about a third of the time to blow dry my hair these days.

The other good thing chemo has done is kill my appetite. During one of my early chemo sessions, I panicked when I overheard a woman complaining that she'd gained 10 pounds during chemo. Since I'd dropped 10 pounds during the "divorce" year, and lost 5 more after my colon surgery, I wasn't eager to think about packing the pounds back on. Fortunately, I've lost 20 more. Chemo makes food taste differently — and not in a good way. Things taste bland or metallic; chewing is exhausting; swallowing an effort. Even when something sounds good, halfway through the meal it loses its appeal. Consequently, I don't each much during the chemo weeks. I think my stomach has shrunk, so that even on off-chemo weeks, I fill up pretty quickly. Can't decide if this has been the easiest or hardest 35 pounds I've ever lost! Makes me laugh: My good friend Shari has taken to calling me The Incredible Shrinking Woman.

I worried that the move would make the divorce more "real," and thought that I might sink into a major funk. However, it's been rather peaceful not having to tap dance around a soon-to-be-ex. I think I did my grieving while we were still living under the same roof. I'm still not happy to be divorcing, but I do know I will survive. A favorite quote: I can be changed by what happens to me. I refuse to be reduced by it. —Maya Angelou

Back to my boxes.

Moving on, literally and figuratively

My house looks like it's been ransacked, but packing does that to you. The sale of our house of nearly 14 years is proceeding smoothly with closing scheduled for May 20. (We'll have 3 days after that to vacate the premises.) Amanda and I spent lots of time looking at rental options on realtor.com and, with the help of my Realtor friend Grace, we settled on a townhouse in Lake Forest, about 20 minutes from here. Now that we have a new place lined up, everything else seems so much more real.

The owner has been nice enough to allow us patio access before the lease even starts, so we've made several trips over with my multitude of potted plants, plant stands and assorted tables and chairs. After decades of gardening in yards where the work is never done, I'm looking forward to "container" gardening where I might actually get everything looking good and be able to relax and enjoy the outdoor space without thinking: "There's another flower bed that needs weeding or planting."

Nathan's home for three weeks, so I have some muscle at my disposal. Typical Nathan, he called me Thursday afternoon on his way to the airport in Longview, Texas. He was 15 minutes away for a flight that was leaving in 20 minutes. Arrrrrgh. Actually, the Longview airport is so small that he had a slight chance of still making the flight. But, alas, the doors to the plane were closed so he had to bunk in with a friend and fly out Friday. It's good to have him home and if he ever stands still long enough, I want to measure his height. I swear he's taller than 6-foot-3.

Nathan was one of my concerns in rental house hunting. He'll hardly be in California for the coming year (summer in Ohio playing in a wood-bat league and then his final year of college in Texas). Amanda and I could have made due with a two-bedroom, but I wanted him to have "a space to call home." The townhouse has four bedrooms (tiny, tiny, tiny), so even Sparky gets a room!

Mark is "too busy" to find a place, so he's opting to live in a hotel for the coming year. With rents so high in California and his company's corporate discount at this hotel, it makes sense financially. Personally, I think it's strange, but I keep reminding myself I don't (pick your verb) get to / have to / need to manage his life anymore.

Chemo looms tomorrow — my sixth of 12 treatments — so the rest of the week will be wiped out. Hopefully by the weekend when the lease starts, I'll rally and be able to make a few trips over with lamps, pictures and other assorted stuff that's too hard to pack up for movers to handle. I've got some friends lined up to make some car trips and once my "stuff" starts to occupy my new space, a new page will be turned in my life.

One wrinkle: A few weeks ago, I rolled over to sleep on my stomach and felt a lumpy thing in my abdomen. Lumpy things are scary when you already have cancer. I mentioned it to my oncologist, who felt it and decided to order an ultrasound. (The ultrasound experience may be a blog entry of its own titled: "What's wrong with medicine today.") Anyway, best thinking is it's a seroma, which is "a pocket of clear serous fluid that sometimes develops in the body after surgery. When small blood vessels are ruptured, blood plasma can seep out; inflammation caused by dying injured cells also contributes to the fluid." (Thank you, Wikipedia.) This apparently has been developing since my January colon resection surgery. In the short term, it means a trip to my surgeon, Dr. Shaver, for a look-see on Thursday. In the long term, it could mean needle aspiration of the fluid or surgery to place a drain in my gut. Neither one sounds like fun, but at least no one is thinking it's a new tumor. Just one more hurdle on my road back to health.

So much for an "off week"

This was supposed to be my good week, the week between chemo treatments when cancer moved to the back burner and I felt human again. I did feel human, but cancer still had a starring role.

On Monday, I had to go in for a dye test to see what was happening with my recalcitrant chemo port. The port disc is the size of a quarter and sits below the skin in my upper left chest. A tube running off to the side of the disc is supposed to feed directly into large vein. In my case, the tube makes a complete loop around the port, before feeding into the vein. This is probably what's making the chemo treatments so sluggish and time consuming.

"Never seen that before," said Dr. K, who did the dye test. From there, it was a series of phone calls to convey the test results and schedule to surgery to fix the port. So, Monday I'll be going under the knife again to, most likely, get a new port. Because chemo's supposed to start the next day, the surgeon will place the chemo needle during surgery so it's in place for Tuesday's third round of chemo.

Not a major complication, by any means, but enough aggravation to be depressing. How depressing? I spent 45 minutes wandering a department store's super sale with a 30 percent off coupon in my pocket and couldn't find a thing to buy. That's just not like me.

Nothing's ever easy!

My chemo port is misbehaving. Today, it would give no blood (so I had to have a stick in the arm), and unless I was flat on my back, the chemo drip slowed to a random drop every few seconds. Normally, being told to lie down would be music to my ears. However, even good things like recliners have their limits and two hours flat on my back is mine.

Phyllis pointed out that a gentleman who was getting the exact same chemo as me started a half hour after I did and finished  a half hour ago. I still have 800 ml to go, plus another smaller bag of something else after that. I've already been here four hours!

So the next adventure in my treatment will be next week (my "off" week) to get some dye injected into the port so that any problems in my line will be visible. Phyllis says I may need a new chemo port, which probably means another surgery. But if it speeds things along, it will be worth it.

Chemo: 1 down, 25 to go; er, make that 1 down, 12 to go; oops, 1 down, 11 to go!

I always have been math challenged. Somehow, when they said six month's of chemo, I divided the 52 weeks in a year in half, and figured I had 26 treatments. Amanda was driving me home after my first treatment and I was filling in a friend via phone: "So, I've got 1 down and 25 more to go." Amanda said: "WHAT?" and pointed out the fallacy in my calculations. I had totally overlooked the fact that my treatments would be every other week, thereby cutting 26 in half. What a relief! I'd gone from mentally preparing for 26 treatments and, in the blink of an eye, it had been cut to 13! Two days later, when I related that story to my chemo nurse Phyllis as she disconnected me from my pump, she gave me even more good news. "Actually, six months of chemo is only 12 sessions. You've just got 11 left!"

So, I've survived my first chemo experience. It began with nurses complaining about my chemo port placement. Seems instead of surgically placing it in a "pocket" with the incision above the device, mine had been placed so that the tender five-day old incision ran directly over the membrane nurses need to access to get the poison flowing. There was much hemming and hawing as two nurses tried to determine exactly where to stick the needle. (Have I mentioned how much I love getting stuck with needles?) In fact, when the port was first described to me, I envisioned it as more of an IV hookup that permanently hung outside my body for easy, needle-poke free access. I think I was confusing a chemo port with a PICC Line.

Anyway, lucky for me, it was a one-stick wonder and the only remaining concern seemed to be positioning me to maximize the flow. Amanda was my chemo buddy and kept me company for the nearly four-hour process. There were at least a dozen chemo patients in the room; some younger, some older; some with buddies, some alone; some sleeping, some chatting. Not everyone's chemo is the same length, so some came and went while I was there; others were there when I arrived and still there when I left. (Note to self: Pick a better chair next time. My recliner partially blocked the doorway to the nurses station so I was constantly pulling up my legs trying to get out of the way of passing nurses.)

I expected some "momentous occasion" feelings, but none came so I passed the time reading magazines, snoozing, people-watching, eaves-dropping and chatting with Amanda. The side effects kicked in later that day. They warned me about hyper sensitivity to cold and that happened with my first drink of water. The sensation was akin to dipping your foot in a too-cold pool. Only it was happening inside my mouth and throat. It wasn't painful, like a ice-cream brain freeze, just jarring. The next side effect happened at home when I carried a Diet Coke in from the garage fridge to my dresser. Halfway there, it felt like pins and needles were shooting into my finger tips. Sort of like accidentally shocking yourself. Or like having a hand or foot fall asleep.  Thankfully, the sensation stopped as soon as I put the can down.

They start you off with anti-nausea medication — and it worked for me. The in-office portion of the chemo cocktail took four hours. Then they hooked me up to a pump that would give me an hourly dose of one of the drugs over the next two days. I was invisioning a tiny little pump, but this thing was like a first-generation cell phone. Fortunately, it came in a case that I could carry over the shoulder, in a purse or wear as a fanny pack. At night, it rested on the pillow next to me — softly whirring once an hour. I had to remember to carry it with me for middle-of-the-night pit stops. Only once did I forget and start waltzing into the bathroom, only to be yanked back by my tubing. No harm done.

On Thursday, I went to be disconnected from my pump. I told Phyllis about a dull-but-definite headache I'd had for 30 or so hours post-chemo. No amount of Tylenol or Motrin knocked it back. "That's the steroids," she said. STEROIDS???? (There goes my chance of making it into the Baseball Hall of Fame.) Turns out steroids are part of the anti-nausea medication included in the chemo cocktail. Next time, they'll cut the steroids in half and I'll get to figure out whether I'd rather be more queasy or take my chances with the headache.

Thursday afternoon, the fatigue side-effect kicked in with a vengeance; I could have slept 24-7. By Saturday, I was perking back up.

My "week off" has been good (aside from a lingering side effect that has made Imodium my new best friend). I've heard conflicting reports: One, that chemo gets worse as it goes along; two, that your first experience is pretty typical of how you'll tolerate it. Personally, I'm hoping for the latter.

Thanks to all of you who've inquired how it's going. Didn't mean to keep you in the dark for so long, but I've spent the better part of my "week off" rounding up tax papers. To paraphrase Ben Franklin: "Nothing is certain except chemo and taxes."

Just another complication

'Twas the night before chemo and all through the house ...
All the creatures were stirring, and so was the house.

Just to complicate life further, we may have a nibble on the house. OK, so it's not an official offer. Just a report from our listing agent. A couple who came to see our house on Friday apparently liked it enough to inquire if we would consider a 30-day closing. Apparently, they are cash buyers (not too many of those floating around these days) with an ill family member and they want to get settled quickly. They wanted to come back and see the house again tomorrow afternoon — chemo day — but I had to beg off because I just don't know how I'll be feeling. They are considering another house near us, but supposedly ours is the leading contender. They are scheduled to come again Wednesday.

Many people probably think I'm crazy to even consider selling/moving amid chemo. Secretly, I think my sister is one of them! And she may be right. She has pointed out that I'm right in the middle of three of life's major stresses: divorce, cancer and moving. The first two were out of my control, and I've turned control of the third over to the Real Estate Gods.

After my surgery, when it became apparent that chemo was in my future, my soon-to-be-ex generously offered to put everything on hold until I'm done with chemo — no more divorce negotiations, take the house off the market, focus on getting better. It was a kind and tempting offer, but I turned it down. I'm afraid that if everything goes on hiatus, it will feel like starting divorce proceedings and house selling from square one when chemo's done. Right now, I'm mentally prepared for divorce and leaving my "forever home": Not happy about it, but ready to deal with both and get on with my "next" life.

So, I've turned my future living arrangements over to the Real Estate Gods. If a good enough offer comes in during chemo, a move is in my future. If not, I've lost nothing and can muddle through chemo in my cozy little downstairs bedroom. The fact that Mark and I are still amiably living under the same roof is an interesting ("Awkward," says Amanda) twist to our divorce. But, hey, the house is plenty big and he works long hours anyway.

Got my chemo port put in last Thursday. Surgery was easy, but I seem to have developed an intolerance to anything taped to my body. The 4-by-5-inch adhesive bandaging covering the port has been itching like crazy. I've gently loosen much of the adhesive and tried to soothe my reddened skin with lotion and antibiotic ointment, to no avail.

Another "fringe benefit" to the chemo port is that it apparently sets off sensors. Amanda and I were popping into Kohl's Sunday night when the alarms started beeping. I'm looking around to see who's sneaking out with unpaid goods. Amanda says, "Mom, that's you!" Then she reminded me that I left the surgical center with a "Medical Alert Identification Card" that I'm supposed to carry in my wallet. I can't wait to see what I do at airports these days!

Opening Day here I come!

BC (before cancer) I was planning to spend lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season in 2010, but I'd seen very few games. For 2011, I'd planned to see alot more.

AC, and knowing that chemo was looming, I jumped at the chance to travel to Longview for the Jackets opening weekend, Feb. 11-12. Amanda and I lucked out with some decent airfares right into Longview, eliminating the need to rent a car in Dallas and make the 2+-hour haul back and forth to East Texas.

Our first day there, we awoke to freezing sleet and weather that didn't look promising for baseball. Fortunately, each day after warmed up a few degrees and by Friday's first pitch, it was nearing 50. Not to brag, but Nathan had an amazing opening day. (Details for the sports fans: http://www.letuathletics.com/sports/bsb/2010-11/releases/2011021134i4w6.) He had the team's first homer of the season (That's my boy!). It was puzzling to see him playing left field this year when he owned first base last year, but the intricacies of coaching baseball are beyond me.

We got to see a doubleheader on Friday and another on Saturday and Nate ended the four games with a batting average over .500. Not too shabby. But I felt an overwhelming sadness at the end of Saturday's games when I realized I may have seen my only games of his season.

The night before we left, Nate shared some more good baseball news: He's been offered a position to play this summer for the Lorain County (OH) Ironmen, based in his dad's hometown. It's a wood bat league, which is what baseball scouts like to see potential players wield. Maybe I'll be breezing through chemo and able to travel to Ohio this summer for a game or two during an off-chemo week.

Whether I'm in the stands or following the games online, I hope Nate knows I'm in his cheering section.