And now, I'm in Baltimore with my wonderful husband, 30 years younger than Dad, as we fight the cancer that has put our lives on hold, scared the hell out of us, and demanded our full attention. We are well into the treatment that has been tailored for Ted by a team of doctors: three big doses of a trio of chemos, with a period of rest after each; this being followed by daily radiation - in the middle of which we find ourselves now.
There is nothing like the immediate rush of adrenaline one feels at the onset of such a diagnosis. Even before the diagnosis - the suspicions, the scans, the biopsies, second opinions - at each point the jack-in-the-box has been wound tight. Nerves are on edge, waiting for the phone call when the jack pops out, triggering another dose from the adrenal gland, another heart-pounding rush.
For now, those shots of adrenaline have subsided as we fall into a routine of daily treatment, weekly chemo, and periodic visits by other members of our supporting staff. I call it the cadence of cancer. Can you imagine? Patients and spouses all heading down to the cancer center like it's their day job, all used to phlebotomy, oncology, scanning their patients' cards, buying parking tickets at a discount. Like this is normal!
When we were coming to grips with Ted's diagnosis, all the little scenarios we equate with cancer - loss of hair, nausea, weight loss, fatigue, radiation burns and worse - all these flashed through my mind. I'm sure they flashed through Ted's too, although neither of us wanted to bring this unpleasantness up. Sort of like the elephant in the room - the side effects of cancer that were sure to come. Better not to dwell on them, though. Why borrow trouble before it appears? It only mars what could be a good day otherwise. So out of sight, out of mind. And when the hair began to fall out and the nausea came, we were able to handle it matter-of-factly. Maybe because you're 'eased' into these afflictions. They didn't appear full force after the first chemo (well, nausea began...). After the second, hair started to come out and Ted decided to have Todd give him a short cut. Less fuzz to notice when it did fall out. So you get used to what is happening gradually. Surprising to me. But what can you do about it. And there are so many people in the same boat... It's almost like a subculture. The cancer culture. So you just deal with it all and don't bemoan it. Set your jaw and plod through.
Along the way, even as the caregiver and not the patient, your sense of self changes subtly. One rarely notices the passage from one phase to the next in this life. Aside from giving birth, if you choose to, one usually isn't really aware of where he lands in the timeline of his life until he's smack in the middle of the next phase. I mean, didn't middle age creep up on us? And don't most of us in our 50's still think we're in middle age? Ahhh - but are we really? Nothing like cancer to remind you that AARP has relevance. That what was normal last year is hard to remember a year later.
I am feeling more introspective about everything as I deal with entering this next phase of life. I think about my parents (especially my mother) all the time. Trying to look with new eyes at their lives when they were the age I am now.
And Ted. I admire him so for what he is shouldering. I can't imagine how I'd behave if I had this fight going on in my own body. Giving myself up to be injured - burned - on a daily basis. I feel inadequate to help - unable to lift this burden of pain from him right now.
I try to memorize little scenarios when they occur - a visit to Baltimore Harbor for lunch before the first chemo, holding hands on a bad night until one of us falls asleep. The way the back of his head looks in his recliner, now that he has no hair - so young and soft.
I don't know why I'm inspired now to add something to this stale blog. Perhaps it's the irony of the date, or my need to record these conflicted feelings. Seeing them in black and white, reading them, might help me understand everything that's popping into my head these days. This was the result yesterday:
Sitting in his Easy Chair
The back of his head - coiffed by cancer
Vulnerable, precious, kissable
I didn’t know his ears went quite like that…
Is this what his mother saw, reading Golden Books at 6?
Cancer pulls back curtains
Lays you bare.
Vulnerable, precious, kissable
I didn’t know his ears went quite like that…
Is this what his mother saw, reading Golden Books at 6?
Cancer pulls back curtains
Lays you bare.
