one week down, five to go

I am writing with the lightness that comes from being disconnected from the chemo pump which had been bound to me since Monday morning.  One week down now and five to go--technically 4 weeks and 3 days in this first course of treatment.

Our family has been on the receiving end of an incredible amount of love and support in the past month. Often this love has come in edible forms: delicious pot pies, soups, salads and desserts delivered to our doorstep, and care packages bursting with fresh bread, gelato, and so on. Also books and activities for the girls, and so many other fun and thoughtful things. I am afraid to thank anyone on this blog because if I do, I will spend much of the weekend typing.  That said, please know how much we appreciate our friends, family and our amazing little town of Hopkinton, New Hampshire.

I went to radiation oncology every morning this week and lay down on the previously described "belly board" machine while it whirred and beeped and then went on my way.   I went to work briefly on Tuesday and Thursday but was pretty drowsy and not especially able to concentrate.   Thankfully, the radiation has caused no side effects thus far, which is to be expected at this early stage.  The chemo that was continuously pumping through me didn't cause too much in the way of unpleasant side effects.  I hope this will continue to be the case, although with both chemo and radiation the side effects are generally cumulative. The chemo pump is equipped with a little digital countdown display and it was exciting to watch it click off the milliliters as the little bag emptied into my veins. The weekly dosage of 5FU is 96ml, infused at a rate of 1ml/hour; that's not much more than a double espresso (Miriam, think of it as a little more than two tequila shots).

I had a bit of nausea that was controlled by medication, but the medication did cause drowsiness and made me feel like napping for much of the afternoon each day.  I think the chemo also just made me feel a bit "off" or woozy.  I'm not sure I can put my finger on how or why, but I didn't feel entirely like myself.

As more friends learn about my diagnosis I've been contacted by and spoken with quite a few people who have survived colorectal cancer, and heard the stories of many more. It is inspiring to hear their stories and so encouraging to know of all these people who are doing well years after their treatment.

For better or worse, I've also re-joined Facebook to take advantage of several colon cancer support groups. These groups have quirky names ("Colontown," "Rectalburg"(!?)) and have so many members that finding someone with a similar diagnosis and patient profile takes just a few keystrokes.  That can be comforting; age is one of the main risk factors for cancer, so most of the people I've encountered locally with this type of cancer are at least 20 years older than I. The downside of Facebook, besides the fact that it's Facebook, is that the stories of treatment you read in these groups can be downright horrifying. I tell myself that it might have been years ago, and maybe they didn't have the same quality of doctors in whatever state they live in; but still, it is not uplifting to read about someone who is dealing with severe side effects from radiation ten years later. So I've chosen not to spend too much time reading these stories. Still, when I have a question about foods, or different strategies for managing side effects, I am both thankful and amazed at the quick and detailed responses I get from these groups.  Best of all, the members are wonderfully supportive of each other.

We have an old book about cross-country ski touring that has a picture of an unfortunate woman crossing an icy creek with her skis strapped to her pack and her pants hiked up over her knees. The caption reads "Often, the crossing is worse than the anticipation." I know it will get harder, but right now I am so glad to have things underway.