Then I woke up with a rash on my hands, which throughout the day spread over my body. I drenched my skin in calamine lotion and popped the maximum dosage of Benadryl, but nothing seemed to help. I scratched. I bled.
When I woke the next morning, the rash had worsened and my body was covered in deep-red welts from where I’d torn at my skin in my sleep. Chris phoned the doctor’s office and after several calls back and forth was told by the nurse that I should take Benadryl and Tylenol and to keep checking my temperature. Here we go again, we both thought. And again the doctor was not available. We’d never heard from her during the white blood cell crash, and it did not appear she would be available for this.
The Benadryl kept me sleeping most of the day. But when I slept, I had nightmares usually involving a car spinning or sliding out of control or with me in the backseat and no driver up front. Analysis of the dream was not difficult—everything was spinning out of my control. At night there were no dreams because there was no sleep. Instead, I played what I called Misery Slots. I had three things going wrong intermittently all through the night, any one of which was enough to keep me wide awake. First there was the hives—which periodically would flare up and keep me tearing at my skin. Then there was the hot flashes—chemo had sent me into early menopause, so hot flashes, night sweats, all those lovely lady things, occurred. And then there was the indigestion—the common name for the elephant stepping on the middle of my chest. Every so often I felt as though a tennis ball had lodged in my esophagus and all I needed to do was swallow it. My father had told me about drinking a mixture of baking soda and water and usually that relieved the indigestion better than the over-the-counter drugs. But not always.
Hives. Hot flashes. Indigestion. These were the reels at my Misery Slots. Sometimes one of these things would occur, sometimes two, and if I hit the misery jackpot, all three were up together and the bells would ring, the siren would go off, and…there was no jackpot payoff. Except total misery.
I could not sleep. One particularly terrible night, I gave up and swung my tree trunk limbs out of bed, careful not to wake Chris.
In the guest bathroom at the end of the hall, I ran an oatmeal bath to try to reduce the red, bumpy welts covering my body. I undressed and climbed into the lukewarm water, letting it surround me as I tried to find a comfortable position. Oh, how I missed the spacious hot tub with seats shaped for comfort and water surrounding me up to my neck. But the hot tub, like raspberries, spicy foods, and pedicures, was off-limits during chemo. The tremendous, deep, long bathtub in my old rented condo would have been a beautiful respite, but that was in the past. I made do with the shallow, short tub available and the lukewarm water I was allowed. I waited for relief. Any relief.
I closed my eyes and tried not to look at what had become of my body—what had become of me. I was a bloated, hairless little girl suffering from early menopause and hives. I was tired. And I was sick. I could no longer pretend otherwise. Too soon the water cooled.
I rose slowly, using the wall to balance myself and my heavy limbs, and stepped out of the tub. In two steps I came face-to-face with a monster in the mirror. There she was: bald, no eyelashes, no eyebrows over her eyes but heavy gray bags under them, red welts all over her body (made much more vibrant by the warm water), darker red scratches ravaging her skin, a two-inch scar across her right breast, and a full-body steroid bloat.
I was hideous. Hideous.
I was Chemo-stein.
In preparing for chemo I’d thought about the hair loss, of course, and concentrated on the fact that it would grow back. I thought about losing my eyelashes and decided eye shadow and liner would work miracles. I knew of the bloating weight gain the steroids could cause but told myself that was better than nausea and again it was temporary; after all, Seamus had gained 20 percent of his body weight and just as quickly was back in fighting shape. Menopause would come, sure, but it was going to do that sooner or later anyway, and before it happened I was no more aware than anyone else of the true meaning of hot flashes and how you burn from the inside out, so that hadn’t bothered me either. Somehow I had overlooked skin rashes as a side effect and never, never had I given thought to what these side effects would all be like together. Not until that moment, face to mirrored face.
How does one recover from this? Impossible. There was no way my body would ever be the same. And I still had two more chemo sessions to go. I sank down to the floor, away from the mirror, and dropped my head into my palms. I closed my eyes tight. I’d never be the same. I’d been kidding myself that this was all temporary. One cannot possibly come back from this. My head pounded. My chest hurt and I gulped for breath. I can’t do this. I can’t.
And then a familiar noise.
AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!
I jumped up, banging my forearm into the edge of the sink.
AAAAAARRROOOOOOOOO!!
“Seamus, no,” I hissed at the door. He’d wake Chris, and I did not want Chris to see me like that. I grabbed my robe and threw it on quickly, flinging the door open simultaneously.
Seamus blocked the doorway.
He was at my feet, sitting in that cute stance I loved, butt on the ground, back legs splayed in what seemed to be six different directions, front legs locked and straight in front, head tilted, one ear flipped back, and big kohl-lined brown eyes staring up at me, tail wagging. He looked at me as though nothing was wrong.
But something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.
I bent down to pet Seamus. Instead of curling into me as he usually did when he wanted love, he barked and spun around, heading toward the staircase. He did it again and again, his head jerking from me to the staircase and back to me with each bark.
Downstairs. He wanted me to go downstairs.
Seamus had a lot of issues, but an inability to express himself was not one of them. I hurried after him, still hoping we wouldn’t wake Chris. As I passed the bedroom, I glanced in and realized that Chris was no longer in bed.
I followed Seamus to the cause of his excitement.
Chris was in the kitchen, wide awake with the lights on.
“Aw, you look cute,” he said.
Cute? “I look horrible. I can’t believe how awful I look.” I sat down at the kitchen counter. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
Chris slid a tray of hot, fresh cookies out of the oven. “You’re all pink from the bath, and with your white, fluffy robe and the hood pulled up around your little face, you look cute. Not awful at all.” Unperturbed, he began to scoop the cookies onto a plate. “You can do this.”
“I don’t feel good. I feel really, really shitty.”
“I know, baby. I know. But you’re halfway there. Remember our mantra: the dog lived and so will you.”
“I may live, but I may also forever more look like a monster.”
“No, you won’t. Look at da Moose.” Chris pointed to Seamus, who was balancing on his hind legs, head and neck stretched out, snout in the air, sniffing at the plate of cookies on the counter. “You’d never know he’d been sick.”
Chris poured two glasses of milk.
“I’m not a dog. I’m not that lucky.”
“No, you’re not a dog. But you are just as stubborn as this one.” He came out from the kitchen, carrying the plate of cookies and the glasses of milk. Seamus trotted behind him. “This will help. I’ll stay up with you. And as long as there are cookies, I think Seamus is in, too. Maybe we can find a movie on.”
He made cookies. He’ll stay up with me. And it’s four in the morning.
He hadn’t even flinched at my appearance. The tension in my face relaxed. My shoulders dropped, and I moved over to join Chris on the couch.
I looked like a monster, he’d given up so much to stay by my side every step of the way through this, he’d been scared and tired and had to take on so much mo
re responsibility in our home and our life, and he’d never complained once. No, instead he quietly slipped downstairs and made me cookies and milk, and he was ready to stay up with me all night if need be. What more proof did I need that I have finally, finally chosen right? I’ve gotten this “relationship” thing right. What more proof did anyone need?
My Misery Slots were shutting down. I was winning an entirely different jackpot now.
There on the couch, snuggling with Chris, chewing on soft, gooey, homemade cookies, I realized I’d just been saved. What happened in the bathroom could have gone in an entirely different direction. That moment could have broken me. But it did not. Seamus, whatever his reasons, had managed to pull me out of it. He’d taught me this before. I needed to remember the very important lesson: sometimes, you just need to focus on the cookies. And if I focused on the cookies, I couldn’t help but see the love from the dog and, more importantly, from Chris. And that’s what really mattered, then in the middle of the night and always. Focus on the cookies.
I rested my head on Chris’s shoulder and breathed deeply. The feeling was similar to when I’d had the rollover car accident—the moment when I’d walked away and realized I was unharmed but then turned to see the wreck of a car and what could have been. The moment I realized how much I could have lost.
Cancer has a way of focusing one on what is being lost, I realized. It was time for me to focus on what I had. I smiled. Any urge I had to burst into tears dissipated. All I wanted to do was pet my soft, cute, cancer ass-kickin’ beagle and snuggle in next to Chris.
Yep. The dog lived. And so would I.
Chapter 22
A BASKET CASE
I made Chris breakfast. It was simple—bagels with cream cheese and some fruit—but I brought it to him in bed.
“Nice. Did I forget my birthday?” he said.
“No. I just figured it was my turn to do something for you.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to.”
“I did.” I sat on the bed next to him. “You know I almost lost it completely last night, right?”
“I figured it was bad.”
“So I didn’t really look cute? You were talking me off the ledge?”
“You always look cute to me. But, yes, I like you a little farther back from the ledge.”
I was not fond of staring over that cliff either. “I don’t think I’ll be there again. I’ve been thinking.”
“That can’t be bad.”
“You’ve been telling me this for a while now, but I don’t think I really got it until last night. I need to handle this as I did for Seamus.” We both looked down at Seamus, who was, naturally, at Chris’s bedside doing his toast dance.
Having our attention, Seamus howled.
“I assume you don’t mean you’re going to eat your way through chemo?” Chris said.
“No, but I am going to talk to the doctor, and if we can’t get her attention, I’m going to switch back to Dr. Glaspy. She hasn’t been there at all. She never talked to either of us through the entire white blood cell crash and after. She never responded to you about the hives. She’s never called to check on me. I don’t think she has a clue what’s going on with my case.”
“I can’t argue with that. Best I can tell, she’s not even in the office.”
“Exactly. So what’s the point of being referred to her if she never sees me?”
“We know now the drive home from chemo isn’t when the problems happen. So if you want to switch back to UCLA, I’m with you.”
I tossed Seamus a piece of my bagel. “And there’s another thing I’ve been thinking about.”
“Apparently you’ve been up thinking for a while.”
“I have. And this is about your parents.”
“Uh oh.” He sat up straighter and adjusted his pillow behind his back.
“No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine. With them I mean. I think it’s time I cut them some slack. Your mom has been really kind through this whole thing. She’s given me great advice on handling the chemo and sent those gorgeous wraps. She calls. They’ve sent cards and flowers constantly. And I know your mom reads the blog. So, yeah. I think it’s time for me to let go of all that past crap.”
“Okay.” He dragged out the word, still nervous about what was next.
“You said they offered to come out here and take us to Easter brunch, right?”
“Yep.”
“Tell them yes. We’ll go.”
“Brunch? With my parents? Again? Are you sure this isn’t another chemo-fever?”
“Nope. We’re going. Doctor first. Then the parents.”
“Well, all righty then, the Teresa I know and love is back.”
• • •
When we entered the oncology office, our senses were attacked with pastel hues and garish paper cutouts of eggs, bunnies, and chicks. Easter was blooming all over the reception area in such a purposefully cheery manner it seemed to be mocking the very patients it was presumably meant to help. I hadn’t been nauseous, but I had a consistent metallic taste in my mouth, and not even eggs sounded good, let alone chocolate bunnies. And they were so condescending. We were really going to be cheered by bunnies in straw hats and dresses?
“This might be the worst one yet,” I said, waving my hand around the waiting room as I took my seat with the clipboard and chart of questions they handed me each visit.
“Easy, tiger,” Chris said.
I pointed to my questionnaire. “They want to know if I consider myself to be healthy. I’m bald. I’ve barely recovered from a full-body rash, and, most importantly, I’m seated in a freakin’ oncologist’s office. I wonder if this is a trick question?”
Chris laughed. “I see you are in rare form this morning. This should be good.”
When I returned my clipboard, I let the nurse at the desk know that I would not be going forward with my treatment unless and until I was able to speak with the doctor.
“The nurse practitioner will meet with you in your exam.”
“And she’s great, but no. I want to see the doctor.”
“The nurse practitioner is doing the pre-treatment exams today.”
“Is the doctor in?”
“Yes, but she has appointments.”
“And now she has another one.” I sat down without waiting for a response.
Shortly thereafter Chris and I were both in the exam room alone, me in my customary paper vest seated on the exam table and him in his customary small stool next to me.
The doctor entered the room and greeted me without making eye contact. She stared at her clipboard. “I understand you need to talk to me.”
“Yes. It seems unusual that I haven’t been talking to you. That there’s been no communication and I’ve had a few things go wrong.”
“These side effects are very common, and the nurses know how to deal with them. We deal with this stuff all the time.” She moved toward me with her stethoscope aimed at my chest.
I leaned back, dodging her weapon. “It’s not common to me. I don’t deal with it all the time. And your nurse sounded like she was guessing on what to do about my hives.”
“We like to have you come in so we can see what we’re dealing with.” She moved toward me again, stethoscope at the ready.
I again leaned back, putting my hand in front of the stethoscope. “I offered to drive in. It’s not like I was going to work looking like that, so my calendar had been cleared. But your nurse said the nurse practitioner was in Pasadena. And you were in Switzerland. It was obvious there was no other doctor in this facility because the nurse was waiting for return phone calls from Pasadena. Obviously there wasn’t anyone for me to come see.”
“Well, there’s always the emergency room, but that’s not a good choice.” This time she me
rely raised the stethoscope hopefully, but without moving toward me.
“No, it’s a terrible choice. I’d just like some assurance that somebody is overseeing my case and knows what to do about it. I feel like it’s all the nurses and they’re overwhelmed. I was referred here because of you, but it doesn’t seem like you are the one taking care of me.”
“I know everything going on in your case. They call and they email me with all updates and changes. I know what’s going on. Now, we need to proceed with your exam.”
“Can I reach you by email?”
“Absolutely not. I see way too many patients for that.”
“My surgeon didn’t seem to have an issue with that. It really helped to be able to contact him with questions.”
“Oh well, sure, he only sees you five times.”
I held her gaze. “That’s three more times than you’ve seen me.”
She stepped back, leaned back against the counter, and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what’s happening. I want to know if that was an allergic reaction I had and, if so, what’s being done about it. I want to feel confident in the care I’m receiving. I don’t think that’s so much to ask.” My voice was shaky. I was trying to be firm without showing my anger. I was also trying not to scream at her.
Grudgingly and quickly, she reviewed my case with me. My reaction to the last chemo was not acceptable, and she had decided not to give me that chemo again. She was switching me to another related chemotherapy that would give me the same benefit but was far less likely to cause an allergic reaction.
“What happens if I have another allergic reaction?”
“You won’t.”
She was infuriating. “What if I do?”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “If you have another allergic reaction, we will likely stop the chemo. You will have had three sessions and we likely will not do the fourth. We’ll just continue with the hormone therapy.”
Dog Lived (and So Will I) Page 27