Time

Last night we switched the clocks back an hour, but someone forgot to tell the pets.  At 5:40 they started their usual morning assault.  I am their target – they seem to have learned to leave their other human alone.  Henry started off, meowing quietly at first from the safety of the hallway.  Sam, a 60-pound border collie mix, paced back and forth like a child needing to use the bathroom, toenails clicking persistently on the wooden floors.  I froze, remaining as still as could be in my bed, trying not to give any sign that I was aware of them.  One slight shift gave me away and they were both up on my bed, Henry forgetting about the threat of a spritz of water.  I got them to settle for a bit, but after 10 minutes, Henry started to walk across the pillows and onto the dresser and I knew it wouldn’t stop until I got up and let Sam out and gave them both a treat to hold them for a bit.  How to reset their clocks?  You would think I’d remember from year to year, but I don’t. 

So here I am, sitting in bed, wide-awake, pondering time.  Time has been moving at different speeds these past few months.  In August when the doctor discovered a lump in my breast, things moved at warp speed all the way up through my surgery in September.  Since then I have experienced the slow pace of waiting for results and appointments with new doctors to chart the course of further treatment.  The nearly 3 weeks since then have gone at a snail’s pace. 

I have had plenty of time to prepare, if anyone can really prepare, for chemotherapy.  I have spoken with people who have gone through it before me and, if nothing else, I have really learned this lesson: all breast cancers are NOT alike.  We hear so much about the stage of a cancer, but there are so many other elements to a diagnosis.  Just one factor, such as being HER2 positive, can totally separate you from those who share all the other aspects of your diagnosis.

When I was at the hospital last week for tests, I visited the resource center and picked up some very helpful literature on treatment and nutrition. I have been on the phone with my sister, who is a nurse, and on the Internet researching ports (unfortunately not fortified wines, but those quarter-sized objects that are inserted under the skin so you don’t have to have your veins constantly poked for chemo and taking blood).  I have read up on tips for coping with chemo, and discovered, not surprisingly, that everyone reacts differently to their treatment.  Another lesson learned: there is no universal truth about how one will respond to treatment.    

I have gone to a wig shop to investigate my options once I lose my hair. They suggested I ask my insurance company whether they would cover a “cranial prosthesis”.  I did.  My insurance company does not cover the cost of wigs, because it is not mandated by my state.  (Topic for another time: why should an American citizen living in one state have such different rights from citizens living in other states?)

I have gone through ups and downs over these three long weeks.  The downs: losing Maya; experiencing a major case of nerves about chemo; waiting for a free flu shot for nearly an hour at the county health clinic, only to run out of time before they could see me and other minor inconveniences.  The ups: getting my hair chopped very short and liking it, meeting up with friends for lunch, coffee and a movie; being taken out to dinner on Friday night by my dearest friend and having one of the best meals I can remember – lamb shoulder slowly braised with marjoram, fennel and honey, tossed with caramelized onions, wild shitake mushrooms and pappardelle noodles; and best of all, learning that my brother will fly here on Thursday to be with me.

And today, the day before chemo begins, there will be literal ups and downs. I am headed up on the roof to clean the gutters and safely back down when I’m done. I’ll take a quick look at a photography exhibit on frost flowers at the botanical garden, and tonight it’s off to the theater to see Kathleen Turner on stage in the play “High”.  So although I’ve gotten an earlier than hoped for start this morning, thanks to Sam and Henry, I have the feeling that this day will fly by. 

Then it will be the long anticipated tomorrow – a day that is also chock-full, this time with blood work at 8, port insertion at 9, seeing the doctor at 11:20 and finally facing chemotherapy at 12:30.  I hope to stare it in the eye, and let it know that it is not going to get the better of me!