Shoes! New shoes, to be exact. They are green and white and suede, and they make me a bit more happy. Plus, they were satisfyingly cheap. What more could one want on a cold and grey Thursday?
So, enough twaddle. (look it up. great word.) Yesterday I went to my young-adult group downtown. An issue was raised that gave me cause to think. I wanted to write about it, but I needed some time to try and articulate what I understood emotionally. Basically, for the three of us present, we determined that having cancer led to important pretty important changes for our lives and futures. I have decided not to double major with English; I want to put my energies towards photojournalism. Another person wants to change his major from poli-sci to philosophy. And the other person decided to finally leave her job for a better one. None of us would have reached these decisions if we hadn't had to reevaluate our lives with the eyes of cancer survivors. Our group leader brought up the question of why do most people become so complacent in life, and what is different about having cancer that it causes people to change (sometimes) how they view life? Here's the conclusion I have come to: (Please note, my conclusion is based on being 20 and not having to take care of a family. I'm sure a forty-year old woman with three children might have a different view.) Having cancer causes a major shift in priorities. Your priority becomes yourself and your health. It isn't that you become self-centered. It's more that you become more attuned to what you need or want. Your health depends on your ability to listen to what your body and instincts are telling you. For me, and probably for many people, I think I used to have an attitude similar to, "Okay, this current life isn't pleasant, but I can deal with it. Something will eventually change." I never honestly tried to figure out how to make my life better. I think I just figured it would automatically become so. But now, I have been forced to evaluate my life and myself, and I realized that I need to stand up for myself, to myself. I wouldn't say I'm a totally new person, but I am certainly stronger. And the strength I've found to help me get through this has transfered to all facets of my life, including the strength to accept what I want to do. It sounds silly, but most of us can't or won't admit to ourselves what we really want, and even fewer go out and try for it. Deciding not to double major in English sounds like a minor thing, but the amount of time and energy I'll be able to focus on photography is huge. I'm going to minor in English; I'll never ever let my love of it go. But I really want to pursue photojournalism. And now I freely accept that. Anyway, before you go blind reading from a screen, let me finish this all up. I know it's difficult to take someone else's experiences and apply them towards your own life. I know that many people can't quite visualize having cancer. But I also know that I am trying really hard to illustrate to whomever might be reading this that the conclusions I reach about life are applicable to probably anyone. You don't need a terminal illness to hit you over the head before you say, oh wait, maybe that's not how my life should be. Haha, think of it like I got sick so you don't have to. Maybe. Or maybe I am actually just rambling somewhat incoherently. Either way, I'm not too worried about it. But good luck nonetheless. Pax.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
I suppose it's about that time again.
It's time I get to fill you in on my cancer-fun day! And rest assured, today was a cancer-fun day. Today, I had to go to clinic to meet with my doctor. Just a routine check up, nothing terribly exciting. They drew blood; they analyzed the blood; they sent me to wait for my doctor; I waited for my doctor; I waited some more for my doctor; I saw my doctor but had to wait while she clarified something with another doctor; my doctor returned, checked my lungs, checked my heartbeat, told me I looked pale; we decided on a blood transfusion; and I left clinic not knowing when I would be starting the next round of chemo. 90 minute trip stretched to 3 1/2 hours. Woo, inefficiency! I have since learned that my next session of chemo will start one week from today. This means that while I will not be in the hospital for the Fourth of July, I will be smack in the middle of one rough week of chemo. I can't get over how different this year has been so far, and it's not even halfway through yet. But I plan on enjoying this next week of health, maybe even sneaking in some early fireworks at Navy Pier. We'll see how things shape up. At least I'll have some more blood.
And now for another look into the life of me, with cancer. One of the most common questions people ask me is, "How do you keep yourself busy?" I have an array of answers, ranging from a blank stare and halfhearted laugh to an in-depth description of my musical and photographic adventures. But I realized yesterday what it is that I actually do. I read. I read a lot. Over the past almost seven months, I have read 14 books. This doesn't sound like very many, but most of them have been pretty heavy novels. And these are the books I can remember. I have probably read closer to 18 or so, but I can't remember the others. Those would have been the books I randomly picked up while rifling through the stacks at my library. This also doesn't include Vanity Fair or Anna Karenina, neither of which I could bring myself to finish. Or the growing list of poetry. So that's what I do. I only decided to start keeping track of my literary record about three days ago. Hopefully the list will continue to grow, and hopefully I will continue to pick engaging and thought-provoking novels, memoirs, and non-fiction. Suggestions always welcome. Anywhoo, that's about it from me for now. Peace.
And now for another look into the life of me, with cancer. One of the most common questions people ask me is, "How do you keep yourself busy?" I have an array of answers, ranging from a blank stare and halfhearted laugh to an in-depth description of my musical and photographic adventures. But I realized yesterday what it is that I actually do. I read. I read a lot. Over the past almost seven months, I have read 14 books. This doesn't sound like very many, but most of them have been pretty heavy novels. And these are the books I can remember. I have probably read closer to 18 or so, but I can't remember the others. Those would have been the books I randomly picked up while rifling through the stacks at my library. This also doesn't include Vanity Fair or Anna Karenina, neither of which I could bring myself to finish. Or the growing list of poetry. So that's what I do. I only decided to start keeping track of my literary record about three days ago. Hopefully the list will continue to grow, and hopefully I will continue to pick engaging and thought-provoking novels, memoirs, and non-fiction. Suggestions always welcome. Anywhoo, that's about it from me for now. Peace.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Ya'll know what I'm talking about.
Or at least, you should if you've been reading my blog. If this is the first time you've ever bothered across my ramblings, then you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. So here's the dealio: I have two months (ish) left of chemotherapy!! Honestly, I am pretty sure that September is never going to arrive. It's almost July; summer is almost one-third over. For some, the next two months will fly. For me, I have no doubt they will take way too long. I do hope, however, to spend as much of the next three months as possible at home. I have found it is much easier, and even healthier, to waste time in my house, as opposed to in the hospital. Case in point: I was discharged three days ago. In those three short days, my appetite has returned, my general "ill" feeling has disappeared, and I am gradually building up my strength. Today I think I walked between a mile and a half and two miles, and I was carrying my camera. And that's not counting all the times I ran up and down the stairs in my house, searching for my glasses or the phone or my book... The very good news is that I have yet to fall on my face on the stairs again. So progress has definitely been made!
And now for one of my cancer-induced observations that most people don't think about. So, last week my friend and I were discussing bald heads. She told me that she had seen one of the administrators from BU who is bald, and his head was extremely shiny. She said she thought he might have oiled it. I thought, "Perhaps," but my sentiment was that the man might have just had a greasy head -- I believe "glistening" was the term I used. It has now been over a week since I shaved my head, and I have an update for my friend: my head is shiny. Not overly, blind you in the sun, shiny, but shiny nonetheless. I have a few hypotheses as to why. One is that a clean scalp is a shiny scalp. Two is that our heads all naturally excrete oils, which is why we wash our hair. The difference is I don't have hair. And finally, our heads also sweat, which produces a healthy glisten. So perhaps the administrator was just sweating. Anyway, the next time you see a shiny bald man, don't automatically assume he oils his scalp on purpose.
Finally, one last little thing. You may have noticed there is a new picture of me over on the right. I took that a few days before they shaved my head, when I still had a decent amount of hair. I had enough for a faux-hawk anyway. That's how much had grown back. Also, you may have noticed the little white things sticking out of my chest. Those are my tubes, sometimes referred to as my catheter. Notice how you can see the tube go over my collarbone and down into my innards. Good stuff. And if you're curious, I was in my hospital room, looking at the children's hospital that was across from me. Now, the hair's gone, the tubes are still there, and I am definitely home. That's about it from me for now. Have a splendid weekend. Pax.
And now for one of my cancer-induced observations that most people don't think about. So, last week my friend and I were discussing bald heads. She told me that she had seen one of the administrators from BU who is bald, and his head was extremely shiny. She said she thought he might have oiled it. I thought, "Perhaps," but my sentiment was that the man might have just had a greasy head -- I believe "glistening" was the term I used. It has now been over a week since I shaved my head, and I have an update for my friend: my head is shiny. Not overly, blind you in the sun, shiny, but shiny nonetheless. I have a few hypotheses as to why. One is that a clean scalp is a shiny scalp. Two is that our heads all naturally excrete oils, which is why we wash our hair. The difference is I don't have hair. And finally, our heads also sweat, which produces a healthy glisten. So perhaps the administrator was just sweating. Anyway, the next time you see a shiny bald man, don't automatically assume he oils his scalp on purpose.
Finally, one last little thing. You may have noticed there is a new picture of me over on the right. I took that a few days before they shaved my head, when I still had a decent amount of hair. I had enough for a faux-hawk anyway. That's how much had grown back. Also, you may have noticed the little white things sticking out of my chest. Those are my tubes, sometimes referred to as my catheter. Notice how you can see the tube go over my collarbone and down into my innards. Good stuff. And if you're curious, I was in my hospital room, looking at the children's hospital that was across from me. Now, the hair's gone, the tubes are still there, and I am definitely home. That's about it from me for now. Have a splendid weekend. Pax.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
On going home... Again
Fortunately, or un, I didn't set any new records with this most recent hospital stay. I was in the hospital for about 16 days, four days short of the 20 I was in the first time. But they let me out today! My white blood cell count hopped up to 1.0, and my ANC was 850, as of 6:00 pm last night. ANC stands for absolute neutrophil count. Neutrophils are one type of white blood cells (there are a lot), specifically the ones that fight most nasty little infections. They also determine neutropenia, whch is when your neutrophil count falls below 500. The ANC is really the main determinant for when patients' white cells are showing significant growth. So I'm out, and I'm not neutropenic anymore! You'd better believe the first thing I ate when I got home was a sandwich with tomatoes on it. Mmm, tomatoes. My life is now substantially better.
It is always somewhat of a shock when I get out of the hospital and am reminded that the world kept doing its thing while I was on lock-down. The same thing happened back in January. When I am in the hospital, I have no conception of the weather outside, no means of gaging how the seasons are changing. In January, it might have been 75 degrees or 10, for all I knew. And these past two weeks, I had no idea it was sweltering hot outside -- besides from hearing people gripe about it. I mostly just listened to how I missed a huge heatwave, and wasn't I lucky? Sure, luck; that's what it's called. But there is a mildly acceptable upside: while I've missed over two weeks of sunshine and fresh air, I have also missed the peak of the cicada season. They were extremely noisy when I went in to the hospital, and apparently, they got louder while I was in my confinement. But now, they are much quieter. True, they are now dying all over the place, which is almost as annoying, but they are finally disappearing. It's just strange that they were living, and now they are dying. Everything kept on keeping on while I remained somewhat stagnant. Basically, being stuck inside for so long means that when I finally am released, I appreciate the beauty and mutability of the Outside so much more. Warm breezes ruffling my not-hair, sun burning into my pasty skin, bugs whining and falling and getting crushed underfoot... It's all summer, and it wasn't here two weeks ago. We take it for granted, even curse the heat and humidity and decaying cicada corpses, but really, no one's ever satisfied. It's mostly all we can ask that every once in a while we remember how lucky we are to be stuck in the middle of life and growth and movement. So I am extremely happy and relieved to finally be home and in my own bedroom. We'll see what tomorrow brings; I have a lot of strength to gain back. Otherwise, stop taking summer for granted. Go outside and enjoy the sun while it's around. I sure will be. Peace.
It is always somewhat of a shock when I get out of the hospital and am reminded that the world kept doing its thing while I was on lock-down. The same thing happened back in January. When I am in the hospital, I have no conception of the weather outside, no means of gaging how the seasons are changing. In January, it might have been 75 degrees or 10, for all I knew. And these past two weeks, I had no idea it was sweltering hot outside -- besides from hearing people gripe about it. I mostly just listened to how I missed a huge heatwave, and wasn't I lucky? Sure, luck; that's what it's called. But there is a mildly acceptable upside: while I've missed over two weeks of sunshine and fresh air, I have also missed the peak of the cicada season. They were extremely noisy when I went in to the hospital, and apparently, they got louder while I was in my confinement. But now, they are much quieter. True, they are now dying all over the place, which is almost as annoying, but they are finally disappearing. It's just strange that they were living, and now they are dying. Everything kept on keeping on while I remained somewhat stagnant. Basically, being stuck inside for so long means that when I finally am released, I appreciate the beauty and mutability of the Outside so much more. Warm breezes ruffling my not-hair, sun burning into my pasty skin, bugs whining and falling and getting crushed underfoot... It's all summer, and it wasn't here two weeks ago. We take it for granted, even curse the heat and humidity and decaying cicada corpses, but really, no one's ever satisfied. It's mostly all we can ask that every once in a while we remember how lucky we are to be stuck in the middle of life and growth and movement. So I am extremely happy and relieved to finally be home and in my own bedroom. We'll see what tomorrow brings; I have a lot of strength to gain back. Otherwise, stop taking summer for granted. Go outside and enjoy the sun while it's around. I sure will be. Peace.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Death to acid rain.
There was a huge downpour here a few hours ago. Rain was pummeling my window, attacking stranded people, and making large puddles everywhere. Sadly, I could only watch the rain from behind glass, instead of standing in its midst, arms spread and face upturned like a child. Now that the rain has passed, however, I see that watching it from inside was probably the better option. I just looked at my window, and the entire thing is covered in what looks like spots of dust or grime. Upon closer inspection, it turns out to be just that: grime left over from where the rain drops dried on my window. Now, I could give the rain the benefit of the doubt and say that perhaps my window was dusty, but I am six floors up and doubt my window was that dirty. No, the grime is a result of the smothering grossness in our atmosphere. I can barely see downtown Chicago for all the haze, which is a rather muddy brown color. The rain pulled down the pollution and deposited it on my window. And, I can only assume, deposited it everywhere else as well. So thank you, Industrial Age, for making my world a little browner.
Stepping away from this week's Environmental Rant, life is pretty much the same in the hospital. My white blood cells are still acting sluggish, although everything else is doing well, which is good. My weight continues to fall as my appetite continues to not exist. Since I started chemo way back in December, I think I've lost about 25 pounds. That's a lot of pounds, and honestly, I'm not sure where I lost it from. I guess my hair counted for some... But my actual stomach organ (not my gut) has definitely shrunk. To illustrate, Progresso soups have these blue microwaveable soups that are delicious. The vegetable soup is two cups total, about 160 calories. I had one for dinner last night, and I felt sick about 3/4 of the way through. I made myself finish it because I knew I needed the nutrients, but it was difficult. It's kind of depressing that I couldn't even finish 160 calories worth of soup. So that's what it's like to not be able to eat. And I hate it because I usually love food. Oh well, soon enough I'll be able to eat pork chops and potatoes and broccoli and milk again, all in the same meal. Until then, it's Corn Pops for dinner for me! Happy splatterday. Peace.
Stepping away from this week's Environmental Rant, life is pretty much the same in the hospital. My white blood cells are still acting sluggish, although everything else is doing well, which is good. My weight continues to fall as my appetite continues to not exist. Since I started chemo way back in December, I think I've lost about 25 pounds. That's a lot of pounds, and honestly, I'm not sure where I lost it from. I guess my hair counted for some... But my actual stomach organ (not my gut) has definitely shrunk. To illustrate, Progresso soups have these blue microwaveable soups that are delicious. The vegetable soup is two cups total, about 160 calories. I had one for dinner last night, and I felt sick about 3/4 of the way through. I made myself finish it because I knew I needed the nutrients, but it was difficult. It's kind of depressing that I couldn't even finish 160 calories worth of soup. So that's what it's like to not be able to eat. And I hate it because I usually love food. Oh well, soon enough I'll be able to eat pork chops and potatoes and broccoli and milk again, all in the same meal. Until then, it's Corn Pops for dinner for me! Happy splatterday. Peace.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Quick update.
Progress has been made! My white blood cell counts have soared from 0.1 to... 0.2! Spectacular. But sarcasm aside, this is actually a good sign. It means things are starting to get moving in my marrow. And I have even better proof of this: last night, I started getting The Bone Pain. I told my nurse I feel like an old man: "Ooh, my bones. I can feel it in my bones." But once again, this is a good thing. Actually, this is a very good thing. It means my marrow has kicked into overdrive. Hopefully within the next few days I will be out of here. And in the meantime, what's a little pain? Nothing. Also, Tylenol helps much. So thanks to all who have thought happy white blood cell thoughts in my direction.
Otherwise, more waiting. I think I might be getting scurvy due to lack of vitamin C. Not really, but I am becoming desperate for an orange. Soon enough. And until then, enjoy the halfway point of June. Peace out.
Otherwise, more waiting. I think I might be getting scurvy due to lack of vitamin C. Not really, but I am becoming desperate for an orange. Soon enough. And until then, enjoy the halfway point of June. Peace out.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
I suppose you could say that today has been eventful.
Well, as eventful as a day can get in my happy little hospital room. Firstly, my nurses and I determined yesterday that I was probably becoming dehydrated. I was getting dizzy when I stood up, and my resting heart rate has been averaging between 110 and 120. Normally it's around 50 or 60. So they hooked me up to the fluids. And then my nurse came in this morning and told me that my red blood cells were actually not hanging out as I had thought. They were in fact, running low. So blood was ordered. And blood was transfused. Incidentally, I feel much better than I felt yesterday -- no dizziness and such. I guess I was in dire need of the various fluids. My brother also stopped by, bringing his own brand of amusement to my otherwise bland life.
And here's the most exciting part of the day: Remember December 30, 2006? I do -- with a little help from the b-log archives. That day I was freaking out because I had begun to lose my hair. It was a new and scary experience for me. I didn't really know what to do with it, my hair. Ultimately, I chickened out on shaving my head. I decided just to let my hair fall out and see what happened. What happened is that it didn't all quite fall out; there was still hair left, but it was quite thin. And then my hair started growing back. It was actually at a reasonable length and fullness, i.e. I could go without a hat, when I started on this most recent bout of chemo. And then, wouldn't you know it, my hair started falling out again. Just about right on schedule too. This time, however, I made up my mind. This time, I shaved my head. Well, okay, my nurse shaved it. But gone is all the hair. There is a very short fuzz, but it's not consistent, and it is still falling out. I kind of want to take a lint roller to my head to get off the little fuzzies. I also can't stop touching my scalp. It feels... I can't even describe it. It's funny. So, now I'm bald, and I'm excited. And that's my day. Hopefully I'll be able to sleep tonight, and even more hopefully my counts will show some growth. Otherwise, have a happy tomorrow and all that jazz. Peace.
And here's the most exciting part of the day: Remember December 30, 2006? I do -- with a little help from the b-log archives. That day I was freaking out because I had begun to lose my hair. It was a new and scary experience for me. I didn't really know what to do with it, my hair. Ultimately, I chickened out on shaving my head. I decided just to let my hair fall out and see what happened. What happened is that it didn't all quite fall out; there was still hair left, but it was quite thin. And then my hair started growing back. It was actually at a reasonable length and fullness, i.e. I could go without a hat, when I started on this most recent bout of chemo. And then, wouldn't you know it, my hair started falling out again. Just about right on schedule too. This time, however, I made up my mind. This time, I shaved my head. Well, okay, my nurse shaved it. But gone is all the hair. There is a very short fuzz, but it's not consistent, and it is still falling out. I kind of want to take a lint roller to my head to get off the little fuzzies. I also can't stop touching my scalp. It feels... I can't even describe it. It's funny. So, now I'm bald, and I'm excited. And that's my day. Hopefully I'll be able to sleep tonight, and even more hopefully my counts will show some growth. Otherwise, have a happy tomorrow and all that jazz. Peace.
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