Why so blue?

The good news is I’m officially finished with Round 4 of chemo. The bad news is … I’m blue. It’s taken me a while to truly acknowledge it. I think it started when I realized I could no longer fight off the cold bug that hit me just days prior to being hospitalized for treatment. My energy level was zapped. I tried tons of preventative things to fight it off, but ultimately just gave in to it. I entered the hospital last Tuesday (Jan. 27) with a stuffy head and a tired body.

While I hadn’t really envisioned how the last round would go, in the back of my mind I wondered if there ought to be some feeling of celebration -- I mean, it’s my LAST ROUND, for goodness sake. But, truth be told, the whole thing felt kind of somber. Maybe it was because, aside from feeling so run down and tired, I’d gotten to the point that I no longer needed all the tranquilizers I’d been given during my past hospital stays. So I was truly awake, experiencing a process that had become by the fourth time, honestly, a bit old.

My hospital room was, by far, the nicest one I’d had yet. No shared bathroom as in times past (yes, gross as this sounds, it really can happen in a hospital as old as Mercy General) and with two sunny windows overlooking J Street. I could hear the church bells from nearby Sacred Heart Church (comforting) as well as the early morning construction from the parking lot (frustrating). Can’t say I disagree that Mercy needs some updating/expanding -- I’m just not sure when it’s a good time to do this, from a patient’s perspective.

I stuck with my dietary routine from last time, swearing off of meat (or “flesh foods” as my sister Donna likes to say) in the days before I was to be admitted. This had gotten easier and easier, as I'd adopted a primarily vegetarian lifestyle since Round 3. (Now, sushi -- I’m afraid that’s another matter altogether.)

My pal MaryAnn from work had arrived the weekend before with some heavenly polenta with leafy greens and homemade Puttanesca sauce -- all recipes I’d shared with her from the “One Bite at a Time” cookbook for cancer patients. This dear woman must have been prepping and cooking all day, and I enjoyed every nourishing bite of her meal (which I also enjoyed as my "Last Supper" the night before my hospital stay). In addition, my friend Felicia had dropped off several containers of a yummy, rich soup that she invented just for me -- cream of butternut squash and sweet potato. Talk about comfort food! I think Felicia should add this recipe to her others and launch a cookbook of her own.

When I was last in the hospital for Round 3, the smell of certain foods really got to me. But the funny thing about this time was, because of my cold, I ended up losing my sense of smell altogether. (It’s actually still gone, a whole week later.) This was a blessing in disguise, as I realized I'd no longer have to worry about the effect those trays of questionable hospital food would have on my nausea.

Though I definitely had the smell factor under control, I soon noticed my cold had also robbed me of much of my sense of taste. That meant there was nothing I really desired in terms of food. Outside of my mainstay Miracle Mineral Soup (generously created yet again by my friend Heather), I struggled to come up with anything more substantial to eat. I suppose I would have felt the same way, had I been at home nursing my cold instead of in the hospital. Unfortunately, a near-empty stomach is not a good thing during chemo -- especially when there are several medications being administered both via IV and in pill form. The next thing I knew, the all-too-familiar nausea had kicked in again. Sigh.

As always, I appreciate the company I receive in the hospital from my family and close friends -- Josh, Donna, Wendy, Amy and Lisa. They selflessly arrive in shifts, armed with smiles and willing to spend hours sitting (and even sleeping overnight) in an uncomfortable chair next to my bed. They are the ones who help to pass the days and the hours with me -- talking, watching movies/TV, delivering food and drinks. This time, however, I found myself quieter, quick to nod off, and frequently teary during our talks. Not the best company to be around. I was physically and emotionally tired. I was blue.

Mind you, I had plenty of lovely things to help offset my mood -- a gorgeous, super-soft crimson hat, knit by my neighborhood friend Tamis; a chunk of amethyst (the crystal known to promote healing) from my friend Debbie; a pretty vase of orchids sent by my sister Laurie and her family; and a small bedside cross, which MaryAnn had delivered along with an array of other spiritual items (“to feed your Catholic soul”). Still, the hours in my uncomfortable hospital bed just seemed like an eternity. Maybe there was something to those round-the-clock tranquilizers that used to rob me of my memory during my earlier hospital stays.

By the end of my three and a half days, I was more than ready to come home. And when Dr. Blair arrived to check in with me early Friday morning, I made that point quite clear. He, in turn, made me promise that I was physically strong enough to leave and not just tired of being in the hospital. I assured him that I knew the drill by now and would follow his regular instructions to the letter -- lots of fluids and plenty of activity once I got home. Unfortunately, thanks in part to a student nurse who apparently misplaced my file, I spent the next three hours waiting for my paperwork to be processed before I could leave. I sat on the window ledge of my hospital room and stared outside like a sad, caged animal.

Finally, Josh and I arrived home. Donna soon returned from picking the kids up from school, and I was so glad to get their big hugs and hear about everything I'd missed. Time for the celebration, right? Nope. I still wasn’t feeling it, and instead tried to get a handle on my tiredness. All weekend long, I moped around the house, frustrated that I still could not taste food or smell any of the scented candles in my home. I tried to take a short walk in the warm sunshine, but was quickly wiped out. Finally, I collapsed on a lounge chair in my backyard. What was wrong with me? Had Round 4 really kicked my butt that much worse than the others?

By Sunday morning, my cold symptoms had moved to my chest and I had a low-grade fever. Memories of my last bout of pneumonia lingered in my mind. The oncologist on call prescribed antibiotics, and I continued my around-the-clock dosing of pain/fever relievers and various cold medications. And, in the midst of everything, I continued to break down and cry.

That’s the part that both confuses and frustrates me.

I’ve been mulling it over, while I continue to rest and push the fluids. Maybe it’s just being sick. But maybe it's also because this part of the journey is over -- I’ve done my prescribed four rounds of chemo -- and now I’m facing what I know will be the hardest part. Surgery has always been looming on the horizon, and now it’s just one step closer.

I’m not saying that it’s not okay to be blue. It’s just that I expect the feelings to move on, like this darn cold. But so far, neither has left me. So that’s why I ask you to please keep me in your thoughts and prayers. I need this more than ever to help me regain the positive outlook I'd adopted from the beginning, which I believe has a huge effect on the healing process as a whole. You have reminded me time and time again that I’m not alone in this journey. The angels that you send me are what give me strength and comfort, especially in these emotionally challenging days. So please, please keep sending them!

Here is what’s next: I'll go to see Dr. Blair for a follow-up appointment today (Tuesday), and then I have a final PET scan scheduled for Friday, Feb. 6. The results of this PET scan are what I will bring to Stanford next week. Then Stanford’s tumor board will mull it over, and eventually I’ll meet with the surgical team to hear their recommendations and possibly receive a surgery date. The message I got from my last visit was that surgery would come "soon" after Round 4.

Back in the long-gone days of my first pregnancy, the doctors (as well as those “What to Expect” books) used to compare the size of the baby growing inside me to various types of fruit. Sure, it sounds funny, but it’s obviously a very relatable thing. I have vivid memories of our tiny baby (eventually known to the world as Camryn Marie) being first compared to a mere apple seed -- then later a grape, a kiwi, an orange, and eventually a cantaloupe. (She certainly felt more like a watermelon by the end…which may also explain her arrival by C-section.)

And so it goes with tumors, as well. (Though, ideally, with the sizing in reverse.) When I received the first measurements of my dreaded thymoma, the tumor’s size was compared to that of a lemon. Then in December -- after two rounds of chemo had shrunk it by 20 percent -- the size more closely resembled a (fairly large) lime. I can hardly wait to find out what’s next.

Please, please, please join me in praying for and visualizing a tumor that has shrunk even more significantly than last time. Of course, which specific fruit is your choice altogether. : )

With love and hope,
Angela