The Ass Cancer Chronicles

Welp. Here we are. One week in, y’all. Let’s chat about it while evaluating thoughts on isolation & the feeling of loneliness.

Last Monday, November 18th, I went in and had my first experience with my port being accessed (snicker snicker) and chemotherapy being plugged on in. This is one of two rounds of chemo that I’ll have.

Monday and Tuesday really went off without a hitch. More fatigue, more time in the bed, more time not doing much of anything aside from filling prescriptions, planning appointments, trying to contend with working (or the lack thereof), taking care of myself, and wanting to hang with my children & husband, Steve, in an everyday, normal fashion.

Wednesday came like a freight-train to the face with nausea & fatigue. Everything was uncomfortable. In my dreams, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, and couldn’t find a way out, even when I woke up. It was an ever-present “ick” that was at the back of my mind, and all I could think of was the chemicals coursing through my body, the complete surrender of my functionality, and, ultimately, the complete feeling isolation as I sequestered myself away from my family; away from my life.

It started around noon on Wednesday after a radiation appointment. I had been taking my nausea pills as suggested – as needed. Let me tell you that I learned reeeeaaaaal quick that a labeling of “bitch, take this shit, rotating pills every 4 hours like your life depends on it“ would have been much better guidance.

The acid would build and build to an intolerable level until all that was left to do was to shuffle as fast as humanly possible to the nearest toilet, sink, wooden floor (cute chemo bag & all) to let ‘er rip. I can’t tell you how many times Steve cleaned my glasses after they had been mercilessly puked on in the toilet after falling off of my face (because Steven is a G, obviously).

About the 4th or 5th round of Barfarama, and consulting via text & night visit with a super talented, medically-educated confidant that supplied some anti-acids & other helpful things, I decided it was time to do what any grown, professional cancer woman should do –

I called my mom.

Mom scooped me up & drove to the ER at West Jeff, (not without a stop in the neighborhood at Pelican & where I opened the door at a stop sign and gracefully puked into the street from the passenger seat of her car). We were admitted swiftly for a fun overnight stay packed with IV fluids, anti-nausea meds, GI Cocktails, blown veins, and constant interruptions. So many nurses, so many meds, and thankfully, all were doing their best to get me back in shape to be able to continue chemo.

After our slumber party in the ER, I was rolled into radiation for my radiation therapy where I was received by the most wonderful people on the planet, asking, “Girl, what happened?”, and, “Babe, we hate to see you like this.” Same, y’all. Same. Woof. We radiated, & I tried to belt some songs that played on the station in the room while the machine click-click-clicked around me four times, but I didn’t have the breath or energy to even join in on Journey. It was sad, y’all. I MEAN, JOURNEY.

When I got home Thursday afternoon, I focused on taking the nausea pills and becoming extremely calculated with what I took into my body – what it was, how much, how did I feel, what nutritional macros was I hitting, etc. I nixed the electrolyte additives to my water because that’s what caused so much burning on my esophagus when I was pregnant with both Cos & Wow. I set alarms for my nausea medications day & night while I waited for my insurance to approve the oral GI Cocktail ( Lidocaine/Antacid/Dicyomine). I was determined not to end up back in the ER again especially with getting the chemo bag finished Friday. And, with comedic relief from That 90s Show and episodes of How I Met Your Mother that I’d seen 525,600 times, I puked once and labeled the day the ultimate comeback.

Friday showed up, & while I still felt like absolute dog shit, I got up with Steve, helped the kids get ready, and walked them the whole half of one block to their school.

Here is where I’m going to provide some insight on loneliness & isolation that can be difficult to describe as well as difficult for others, regardless of closeness in relationship, to me:

Did I feel like I had to help get the kids up, ready, and walk them to school? This is something I wanted to do for myself. I missed seeing my children. I missed having time in the morning with my ride or die. I did it because I needed to, and I wanted to – I needed some sense of normalcy no matter how taxing it was physically. Steve is a more than capable Dad who holds it down for our family no matter what – it’s never a question of ability or potential resentment on my partner’s end. Like I said – Steve is a fucking G, and will always do whatever it takes, regardless of circumstance.

But shouldn’t I be resting? I mean, maybe? I am continuously in and out of lucidness. I am continuously in a state of what time is it, what medicine do I need to take, what supplement did so-and-so suggest, oh- hey there’s an appointment today and what car are we taking, I wonder if x client responded to y email, did I pay our car payment, I feel like shit, I want and need to see my family because I miss them with every single thread of my being… and that day, I decided to address the need of being close to my people.

When I tell you that walking 4 houses down and then crossing the street was difficult, what I mean is:

Physically, imagine that you are roughly 140 pounds. You have not eaten anything in 24 hours at least because you barfed it all up. Your chest is sagging not only from the acid that is rebuilding minute by minute in your chest, but also from the feeling that you’re wearing this invisible vest filled with about 40 pounds of sand. Mentally, imagine that you used to do this every day, galloping / skipping / running after a 3 and almost 2 year old; that you’ve hiked 14ers all over Colorado; that you’re merely 40 years old, and this shit should not be hard.

Good news is – everyone made it. Steve & I walked our kids to school together for the first time in what seemed like forever, and I made it to all of my appointments: chemo bag removed from the robot; iron infusion; radiation therapy; follow up with radiation therapy nurse.

The iron infusions are incredible. Think of Mario in Super Mario Bros, and achieving a mushroom that transforms you from little Mario to big bad ass Mario that jump higher, run faster, and do all of the things immensely better. Because of that iron & removal of chemo bag, my appetite came back, I could walk without feeling like death (although much slower), play with the kids… amazing.

It has allowed me to have a weekend of “feeling like a normal” with friends and family, full of seeing individuals at proximity, laughing and catching up on the every day chaos and beauty of life.

Cancer is isolating in many ways. Physically, it treats every patient differently. There are suggestions on how to manage side effects that other bodies have felt based on experience, statistics & science, but truly, it is a “choose your own adventure” – there’s no guarantee of how one will accept (or reject) the medications / supplements / food, what side effects will occur for that individual, and what limitations, or lack thereof, will be experienced. Someone may have had that same chemo bag last week that I had and experienced little to no side effects. Or, worse side effects. Or, rejected it completely. Cancer treatment is not a one size fits all, y’all, and every flavor of it and its treatment is calculated based on so many factors that are left to the experts. Now, with these potential physical limitations come physical isolation. Let’s once again utilize our emotional intelligence to feel what I would be like hearing your children play in other rooms of the house while you are sequestered to your bed and en suite bathroom. Someone’s crying? Tough titties, there’s nothing that you can physically do to assist them.

This brings us to the mental portion, which thus far, based on my personal experience, I’ve divvied up into mental effects based on internal and external factors.

Internally, I am constantly working on feeling. Feeling the sadness without completely unraveling; feeling the gratitude of the support that I have; feeling the strength that my previous life experiences have provided me to prepare me mentally with the toughness needed; feeling the wisdom of taking this shit day by day, hour by hour, or minute by minute depending on the circumstances provided at the time.

In one day, it’s easy to feel beaten down due to internal and external contributions. I can feel lonely because I’m physically alone, and I can feel lonely because trying to talk through it with someone that may have an expectation of how I should be handling, feeling, and JUST OVERALL BEING throughout this may not match my expectations for myself. That external input can cause internal conflict that I then need to process in order to get back to the positive feelings that I need in order to heal.

I know that this is a long, long ass post about updates and also the tip of the iceberg regarding feelings of loneliness and isolation, and so I applaud you if you’ve made it this far. There’s so much more to this key element of the diagnosis – the isolation and loneliness – that I’ll make sure to touch on later in other entries, but for now I’m going to leave it there as food for thought.

What will week 2 bring, y’all? What Ass Cancer adventures will we have in store? Shit, only time will tell and I sure am glad you’re here for the ride. Besos until next time.

With a renowned freedom from the ass chemo bag,

Kirsten.