Well, the title of this post says all--and says little. Last Wednesday morning, I exited Facebook and paused this blog (and my other one: "Daily Doggerel") because I was trying to recover--physically and, well, psychologically--from a very rough experience I had on Tuesday morning during the third of my six scheduled immunotherapy sessions.
Session Three--at the Akron Red Cross--was supposed to repeat Session One: withdraw all my blood (slowly, slowly), pump it through a machine where the cancer-fighting T-cells are separated, save those T-cells, return the rest of my blood to me.
Then--so goes the plan--those T-cells fly down to Atlanta, are enhanced with a cancer-fighting agent Provenge, are returned to Cleveland, where, on Friday, I was scheduled to go down to University Hospitals on University Circle to have those newly pumped T-cells returned to me.
During the blood-withdrawal process I have an IV in my right arm, another in my left (withdraw + return). The first session they had a little trouble getting veins, but they were able to complete the T-cell removal and (a few Fridays ago) the return.
But last Tuesday? A big problem. Although they found an accommodating vein in my right arm very quickly (one try!), the left one proved intransigent. I'll say no more than this: It took three hours and eleven sticks by three different nurses. No go.
And so home I went, bruised, bloodied, profoundly depressed. (My left arm, nearly a week later, still looks as if it belongs to a particularly aggressive drug abuser!) I can hardly lift it. "Simple" jobs like putting on a shirt, holding a dinner plate, tying my shoes--these require some, uh, determination.
So what did I do all week?
I lay around and felt sorry for myself. I managed to get over to the coffee shop on Wednesday afternoon to do my usual reading and whatever, but I could not exercise or do much of anything else. I slept--a lot. I summoned Dark Thoughts and lay, entertained (?), as they swirled around me.
I sent a note to my oncologist with a photo of my arm (which I will not share with you!), and, a couple of days later, he got back, apologized for all of it, said they will try a different technique this time: a catheter near my collar bone, a device that will stay in place until all of this is over.
So ... that will happen in a couple of weeks, I guess.
I began to recover some social equilibrium and psychological health (?) on Saturday night when we celebrated our daughter-in-law's birthday at Otani, a local Japanese restaurant the kids really like. And it was those grandsons, really--Logan (about to turn 13) and Carson (about to turn 9)--who got me "out of myself" and into their swirling worlds of wonder.
And so ... we'll see.
I made sourdough bread today. I whispered silent (and audible) words of love and thanks to Joyce (who dazzles me--and always has--with her compassion and empathy).
And I fired up Facebook--and my blogs. And on we go, gentle or no, into that good night!
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