Chemo and I just don’t get along. That is the truth of the matter, at least at
present (according to Dr. G), and I am done.
Two rounds of high-dose and everything seemed okay until the week before
round three when I dropped to a platelet
count of 67. I realize no one
especially cares what my numbers are, but for basic understanding we all should
be at 150 or better. I got a call
telling me not to bend over or pick up 5lb objects until further notice. There was a whole list I don’t remember. Ultimately, it meant Mark had to carry in the
groceries.
After a few weeks I bounced back, but the chemo is
definitely over. Dr. G says that in a
few years (I love it when he says that) if I need it again I may respond
completely differently to it. Fine, I
take each of these as they come. I don’t
choose to look ahead and wonder about future problems—make that possible future
problems. My MRI a couple of weeks ago
showed no change. The level 3 is still gone!
Nothing is growing! And they are
certain that the small color they saw before was just dye, just as they said
last time. Things are looking good.
I am still tired / run down, and my brain doesn’t work quite
the way I want it to. Medicine changes
affect my tiredness for weeks—I wasn’t prepared for how much it could do to
me. I keep hoping my spelling will come
back, but it is wretched beyond belief. I’ve
been reading all along since my last surgery, but not my usual level of
books. If I read too much at a time the
words would start swimming in front of me.
I kept trying, though, reading longer articles in Vanity Fair for example, and a few weeks ago I picked up the book I
was reading when I went into the hospital.
I’m now reading, carefully and not every day, Brideshead Revisited. I can’t
tell you how excited I am about this. I
used to read multiple books every month, and it has been nine months since I
have read a proper book. Just writing
that makes me sad. I can’t help, in this
moment, but think of all the blind kids who are denied the ability to read by
not being taught Braille. Maddening.
My hair is growing like wildfire on all but one square of my
scalp and my left eyebrow has decided to give it moral support by switching to
half power. My hair was fully punk at my
friend’s wedding, where I also read aloud and did not choke. It was one of my favorite pieces ever, which
might have helped. Or perhaps it was the
small church and town, surrounded by generations of my family starting in the 18th century (we don’t move much in Delta). Mostly I think it was knowing Mark was right
there, his own copy in hand, ready to jump.
I hope everyone has a wonderful fall, as we
intend to. I’m hoping getting out of
this house a little bit will shake off the last remnants of these awful
drugs. And while we’re hoping, let’s
throw one in for the Orioles, too!
Love,--Kristina (& Mark)
