It’s getting harder, folks. Mike himself would say that the first round of chemo had its share of awful moments, but overall it was easier than we’d expected.
Well, the chemo honeymoon is over.
We’re eight days, six chemo treatments, eleven bags of intravenous antibiotics, one $2000 injection to stimulate bone marrow regrowth, several doses of anti-emetics, and one feverish vomitty trip to the emergency room into chemo round two.
The ugly week of nadir has arrived again, and (as you might expect with chemo) nadir is not something that gets easier over time. Each successive round of chemo arrives before you’ve regrouped from the previous round. Each time you enter the battle with less strength and fewer physical resources.
Mike sums it up this way in today’s Dear Cancer post on Facebook (a series I am enjoying immensely in the way that you appreciate the artistry and spirit of something you desperately wish did not have to be written in the first place):
Dear Cancer,
The sum total of my contributions to the well being of my family yesterday:
1. Looking after the baby for 2 hours in the morning so Lisa could get sleep
2. Replacing a roll of toilet paper
3. Staying alive
My aspirations for today:
1. Staying alive
2. Looking after the baby in the morning so Lisa can get sleep
3. More glasses of water than trips to toilet
Sorry that I don’t have the bandwidth right now to listen to your accomplishments and aspirations. You can tell them to my buddy, Bleomycin. They tell me he takes great interest in you.
Yup, that’s pretty much where Mike’s at. He only missed one significant accomplishment off yesterday’s list…he managed to eat a banana. Actually, now that I think about it, he missed two significant accomplishments. The second thing he overlooked is that he managed to get through the day without lashing out at anyone, complaining, or collapsing into a heap of self-pity.
If I were to write a note to Cancer today listing my recent accomplishments, one of them would have to be keeping a reasonable handle on my fear. There is no denying how sick Mike is now. He’s progressed from looking like a hard-living bad boy to looking like…well…a cancer patient smack dab in the middle of treatment. I went to his Facebook page yesterday to check on something and was shocked by how different he now looks from how he looked just weeks ago when I snapped that photo at the top of his profile page.
Witnessing this transformation is difficult. Watching a staph infection blow out in his foot, or the numbers tick upwards on a thermometer just hours after we’ve pumped dangerous drugs into his system is scary. Watching him puking his guts out in the emergency room of the hospital is wrenching.
Those of you who know me well may already be acquainted with my prodigious talent for imagining tragedies and conjuring up worst-case scenarios. It’s called catastrophizing. All modesty aside, I’m very, very good at it. Olympics level good.
And, I have hardly exercised this talent at all during the last eight weeks.
I have tried to do just enough internet research to be well informed, and no more. I have stayed out of any internet chat boards related to cancer. I have refused to dwell upon the possibility that Mike might not come out the other side of this. When I find myself wondering what I’d do if he died (Where would I live!? What would I do to earn a living!? How would I talk about this with the kids!? What would I say at the funeral!?) I just… stop. I acknowledge the question for what it is, and then I force myself to move on and think about something else.
And what are those questions? They are not questions I need to be mulling over now. They are questions about a future that probably won’t eventuate, and even if it does, they are questions that can be answered then. They are not a worthwhile use of my time and emotional energy in this chapter of the story.
So, high on the list of my significant accomplishments in the last couple of weeks has been the fact that I am not feeding my fears. I am not nurturing them with attention and amplifying them with my imagination.
As I’ve been thinking about Mike and fear and nadir this week, I’ve been remembering two of the pieces about love and fear and peace that I’ve written in the past. These pieces with their visceral subject matter were so damn difficult to write, but I think they’re both among the best essays I’ve written in the last decade, so I’ll leave you with those links:
Catch you on the other side of nadir #2.
14 comments
I haven’t walked the chemo trails even though I am a cancer survivor, but I can absolutely relate to the bit about reigning in worries about the future. If I allow myself to start “what if-ing”, I find that opens wide the door for the boys with the black hats to ride in and take over the town, so to speak. Even though we have never met, praying for you and Mike constantly.
Thank you Cathy. I’m glad you escaped chemo in your own bout!! Hope you’re hale and healthy now.
Don’t stop writing, Lisa! You say what most of us stuff down inside and won’t allow to be spoken for fear it might come true. I do believe God’s love casts out fear and running His promises through your mind and reading the stories of men and women who have been down that terrible road of fear and found God’s love will keep your mind at peace. One of my go to verses when fear wants to take over is “You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You: because he trusts in You.” Is.26:3 – Praying for you and Mike.
Thank you, Kathy!!
Beautiful, beautiful essay on love and fear. I suppose the two will always coexist in a broken world where death is inevitable, but I am thankful that you are being given the grace to walk where you are now and to trust that what you need for what lies ahead will also be provided. Looking with hope to the day when fear won’t be a remote possibility, when all is redeemed. Praying for you and Mike especially as you walk in this valley of the shadow, for God’s presence to keep you at peace even here. Above all, asking for Mike’s full healing.
Thank you Brea. That piece on love and fear is probably my favorite essay that I’ve written. I initially titled it Banishing Love’s Twin, but the editors changed the title to A Love That Scares Me upon publication.
Welcome to the low point. He will get better. Especially with his spirit. As long as his mind AND the meds are in this battle, he’ll come out of it. That is what I believe.
Me too! Thanks, Sandra.
I’m here because Chip shared your blog post on FB and I wanted you to know how sorry I am that you are going through this and that my prayers are with you both. You wrote this beautifully.
Thank you Shelly. I hope you see lots of beauty in your own life this week. I love the frame of your blog.
I could have written the first paragraph about my husband, Lisa. His second cycle won’t start until he heals from the surgery he just had. (colon cancer) Chip took me on as a client the same week Paul was diagnosed. The highs and lows of those days have taught me a lot. Long held dreams coming true, then crashing at the uncertainty of Paul even being around. I worry about chemo, the next surgery, his pain, my lack of sleep. Doesn’t get me anywhere, so I’ve decided to follow your lead and give it up. You and Mike are in my prayers. Thanks.
Thank you, Carson. Likewise. Man, life is SUCH a mixture of joys and sorrows, isn’t it??
Hang in there. You are so right, staying off line. I am a big catastrophizer as well. One thing I learned through my husband’s own cancer journey is everyone’s story is different. It is easy to think if A had X symptoms with this treatment, than my hubby will do. But it doesn’t always work that way. One day, one step at a time.
YES! One day. One step.
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