Wishing on a Blue Star

by Kris Jacen

  (And before I go any further, let me remind new people that John’s ability to say ‘I don’t know’ is what endears me to the man. I value his honesty and candor above all things.)

  Still.... I wouldn’t mind in the least if he, someone, or something else (A Magic 8 Ball?) did have all the answers because I am more than tired of trying to find them myself.

  To recap before we delve deeper into what is sure to be the snivel-fest of 2009, I am still packing the hole in my leg twice a day (when I dont forget) and I am still hovering on the evolutionary scale between Neanderthal and Homosapien.

  Put another way, I’ve lifted my knuckles off the ground, but I still don’t feel qualified to be communicative to the rest of the world. Grunts and monosyllabic responses simply don’t count. :)

  Also, as I have alluded to previously, alluded or outright shouted, this cycle has been the worst so far, and I spend a good deal of time playing the “Russian Roulette of Percocet” game. We’ll get to that later, I suppose.

  Anyway.... I woke up last night from yet another unexpected nap with a bloody nose. I can count on one hand and still have room to name a few planets how often I’ve had one of those. Once the crimson cataract was stemmed, off I went to Google the reason why. (It should be noted here that Google is the functional equivalent of the Magic 8 Ball, with marginally more accurate responses.)

  Okay...

  Fact: I am at nadir, the point in time during a cycle when the chemicals are at their most active in my system.

  Fact: You need platelets to coagulate blood, and despite the Neulasta booster, designed to ramp up blood cell production, platelets are likely at their lowest point during nadir.

  Fact: I’ve been known to wake up with a finger up my nose. (Have I mentioned lately I have no modesty left? Well, dignity is also apparently in short supply.) :)

  Conclusion: My bloody nose is the result of the weakened condition of the skin wall being damaged in some manner, and the resulting flow more prevalent because of the thinner blood.

  Okay, I can work with that. My source of ‘comfort’ has ever been understanding why this or that happens, as opposed the hand holding and counseling sessions the rest of humanity seems to find so helpful. Moving on...

  This morning, I woke up with the unlovely feeling of having chewed my way through the week old carcass of a buffalo that died of distemper. (What a visual, huh? I guess I’m still a writer after all.) :)

  I’d already Googled that one. There is a marked correlation between the increase of plaque in the mouth and chemotherapy. Supposition is the decreased ability for the body to fight bacteria.

  As I stood at the sink, looking at a face that resembles a guy twice my age, and brushing away the imaginary remnants of buffalo guts, a million questions ran through my head, all of which began with a single word; “Why?”

  In a long ago age, I used to adore that word, or more precisely, I used to adore answering that word. I had discovered ages ago, when my four year old lease on the question had expired, (“Why is the sky blue, Mommy?” always seems to be the deal breaker.) that it would be up to me to find my own answers and I clove to the task with a vengeance.

  Forty years and change later, I still ask why, then dig until I find the answer(s).

  Until today.

  By the time I was done brushing my teeth, thereby expending all the energy I had on tap, and wondering yet again why I seemed to be doing this whole chemo thing backwards, ( I feel best just after chemo, and get progressively worse until the next cycle. Even John said I was weird.) I wobbled back to bed, pushed the everpresent cat to one side, (the little demon always tries to usurp my warm spot) lay down, and opened my conversation with Doc.

  “How are you feeling?” Doc asks

  “Tired,” I reply

  “Chemo tired? Cancer tired? Or just in general?”

  “None of the above,” I say. “I’m tired of digging for answers. Tired of being stoned all the time, and tired of aching when I’m not.”

  Doc temporizes. “Well, we knew this would be a rough one, what with the increased dosage.”

  “Yeah, I know, and I’ll do it again if we can. Look.” I show him the spot on my foot. It’s the external manifestation of this particular type of cancer, and it is all but healed. “That alone tells me the hassle has been worth it, Doc.”

  “That does look much improved, doesn’t it.” As usual, Doc makes the phrase a statement.

  “Yeah. Wait a sec. I gotta blow my nose.” The noisy result is still spotted with red.

  Doc watches me with all the avidity of a hawk spotting dinner and I grin crookedly. “Sorry about that.”

  Trina the Tank Engine knocks on the door and hands over a few sheets of paper. They are copies of Doc’s progress notes from the first and second session. (Even the imaginary version of the woman is lax about getting me copies of my records, it seems.)

  I scan the pages quickly, knowing that I’ll lose Doc’s attention when my 40 minutes are up, and see nothing we havent already discussed. No new answers, in other words.

  “How’s the neuropathy?”

  I’m startled at that. I havent mentioned the increased numbness in my hands and legs, but then I remember this is an imaginary conversation, so of course Doc knows things John does not.

  “I havent fallen over yet.” It’s my usual flippancy at work again.

  Doc starts to re-phrase the question, and I wave it off. “I’m dealing with it. I drop things all the time, and buttoning my shirt is bizarre beyond telling when you can’t feel the buttons, but it’s no biggie.” Even to an imaginary doctor, I’m leery of telling him too much lest he arbitrarily decide to upset the status quo.

  “So do you think you can handle the symptoms next time?” Doc jots a few notes in his folder, and I sigh, knowing that it’ll be most of a month before I get to see what he writes, even if Trina the Tank does her job.

  “Physically, yeah. Mentally, I’m tired of the whole mess.” I wait for Doc to look up from his scribbling and continue when I have his attention once again. “Dude, it’s like being in a huge warehouse with no exits, and I’m blind. I have to sort out what’s around me strictly by feel, and never mind trying to figure out where the hell I am. After a while, after poring over countless objects and machines, I still cant figure out where the exit is, and all I want to do is sit down and wait for someone to find me.”

  “Weren’t you the one who blogged about resolve, just the other day?”

  Damned imaginary doctors know too much. “Yes,” I reply tensely. “And I meant every word. I know I’ll get there eventually because there is no one to find me, but that doesnt make the doing of it any less bothersome.”

  “I’m sorry,” Doc says, and it’s the only answer I can expect, real or imagined.

  There really is no one else to sort out the problems I personally have. Certainly I can talk to any number of people, all of whom are willing to commiserate, but ultimately, none of them can do my thinking for me. Knowing me, I probably wouldn’t let them even if they tried. So I shrug off his reply and tell Doc again that it’s no big deal.

  “Well, go see scheduling and they’ll get you set up.” Doc says.

  For he and John, that’s my cue that the visit is over, and I can’t help but grin as one last question comes to mind. “Say Doc, one more thing,” I say as I stand and gather up my stuff,

  “Sure. What is it?” He has a quizzical look on his face as he pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

  “Why is the sky blue?”

  My apologies to everyone whose been waiting patiently for me to surface again, and my apologies to those who’ve been reading this blog. I have no cheerful ending today because life isn’t a sit-com, and sometimes you just have to acknowledge the fact that shit happens. This last week or so has been one of those times, and I just don’t have the energy to find the silver lining in the clouds.

  The best I can do is munch the Percocet which make me stupid and simply not care for a while
as I plod along and wait to see if all this chemo nightmare will be worth the effort.

  It may not be fun, but at least it’s real.

  Hugs to all, and thanks.

  Patric

  Monday, December 21, 2009

  All’s Quiet on the Western Front

  They say “No news is good news.” and in my case, truer words were never spoken.

  Several times this past week or so I thought to myself, “I need to update that blog.” and invariably got distracted, sidetracked, or just plain lazy.

  Which sort of suggests I’d rather snivel than cheer, when you think about it.

  Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that an update is in order, and for a change, I have far fewer downs than ups on this roller coaster.

  Towit:

  The gaping maw which became the hole beneath the hole is now the annoying pinprick. Scarcely a quarter of an inch wide and maybe twice as deep, and still draining... something. :)

  That’s a good thing, though I am mortally tired of pulling and packing. It’s gone beyond an exercise into mindless ritual and lets face it, I was never much for ritual. Habits, usually bad ones, I have in plenty, but rituals? Not so much.

  I discovered myself chafing at the (virtual) proximity of others. On the surface, that sounds like a down, but in fact it’s a signal that I am more “me” than usual. I have ever been insular and aloof, and for reasons I don’t need to elucidate. All that matters is that I am rather more or less reverting to my natural state, and I have to count that as a good thing, even if it puzzles others. Probably even hurts, too. Both of us.

  A few days ago, I took myself to an appointment. After all, I haven’t been taking any pain medication for several days, hadn’t crashed more than once a day for just as many, and I figured I could handle it. I went the whole day by myself and was delighted, making my appointment and even braving the thronging masses to grab a few groceries.

  Paid for it the next day though, despite my not having pushed much the day before. Slept nearly 18 hours of the day away even though I did push and tried to stay awake. I’m thinking it’s the gods of chemo reminding me I am still at their mercy, and while I might get a day off, like everyone else in their fashion, my nose is still firmly pressed against the grindstone.

  At the risk of making a truly horrific pun, I can live with that. :)

  The best of all though, and the primary reason for not updating this blog at least a few days sooner, is that I’ve proven my theory that I’ll get at least a week out of every three to write again. This past four days have seen a bit over 6k on a new story, once I finally got around to subbing A Voice in the Darkness to Dreamspinner’s angels anthology.

  As before, this one is just for fun, born of a silly idea that’s taken on a life of its own. 6k in four days is chicken scratch compared to my ‘normal’ output, but as others have said, “Words is words.” and I’m keeping these ones. I might even submit them somewhere.

  All in all, this has been a pretty good end to a rather bad cycle. I’m going to ask John if we can keep the dosage, despite the extra damage it does in the middle. Clearly, I can recover from the effects and while I am too pragmatic to cling to the idea, I’m reasonably certain the enlarged nodes are smaller than before, and that’s the best news of all.

  Cheers people. I’d write more, but I’ve got work to do! Here’s a snip:

  After several hours, and several fishing holes, Marshall shouldered the wide strap of a canvas water bag containing his day’s still wriggling catch and headed home. He preferred to do his cleaning well away from where he fished. The offal would attract predators, competition he didn’t need, and if he instead tossed it into the water to avoid the smell, that would serve only to make the rest of the fish fat and lazy. Roughly midway between his cabin and the river, Marshall veered to his left, his eye on the crumbly, splintered remains of a huge pine tree that had likely blown over long before he came to this part of the world. He never used the same exact path from cabin to water, not wanting to leave tell-tale signs of his travels, and this morning’s return trip saw him slightly south of his last journey. Thus, it was the first time he had seen this particular tree, and as he did each time he came upon such, he investigated it’s potential.

  Old trees like this one were a gold mine for the grubs which made excellent bait for days when he felt pensive and content to simply sit by the water at the edge of a quiet pool and let the bottom feeders come to him. If he was lucky, he might even find a beehive, and honeycomb was always a treat to a man who drank bitter tea. Mostly though it was the stump itself he sought. Fatwood, often found at the heart of old trees, burned even when wet and made an excellent firestarter, but the tar he produced from it was even more valuable for its unrivaled ability to seal his home against rot, and the very grubs he sometimes collected.

  Marshall hung his water bag on a branch and set his back to the rising sun. He kicked at the stump with a booted heel, knowing that the fresh scar he made would be visible when he came back from the direction of his house, but would still look like nothing more than a bear or a randy deer had been at it. Dry, rotted wood exploded from the force of his strike and showered down to the thickly needle strewn ground. Bright white spots wiggled out of the new scar and he sighed. Termites were fine for bears to lap up like candy, but he wanted the almost obscenely fat wood borers that left such fascinating, ever widening trails between wood and bark as they chewed their way deep into the heart of tree and branch. Trails which fascinated him as a boy whenever he found them, darting from rock to tree like a like a magpie, looking for new treasure as he hiked the woods with his father.

  Marshall kicked the stump again and felt a solid jolt as his foot glanced off a section that refused his determination. Nearly translucent because it was saturated with pitch, the fatwood he sought gleamed mellowly in the dappled sunlight. He broke off a sliver and sniffed at it. Rich, fragrant pine scent assailed his nose and made his eye water. Overhead, a bluejay shrieked. Marshall unerringly sought and found the source of the racket, flitting from branch to branch in agitation as though it protested the damage Marshall had done. He frowned, wondering if there was a nest nearby to cause the bird to be so distressed by his proximity. As he turned and reached for the water bag, mentally marking the location of the stump in his mind, he heard a deep, quietly ominous growl directly behind him.

  Tomorrow I have another appointment. I haven’t been on any medication lately, and I’ve only crashed once today.... Hmmm. :)

  Patric

  Monday, December 21, 2009

  And the children were nestled..... Finally.

  Yowsa!

  I have said it a thousand times, so one more wont hurt. I have the best doctor in the world.

  Set the Wayback Machine, Sherman! Go back to while I am sitting in the dentist chair, waiting for his august presence.

  Or we can go back still further to when I called, made the appointment, and told them what I needed to have done. It amounts to the same thing.

  Note: The following dialog and conversations are paraphrased, only.

  “Hey Mr. Dentist Guy, nice to meet you.” Says me.

  “You too. I understand you you’re on chemo?” Says he.

  Me: “Yep.”

  He: “And that you are looking for extractions?”

  Me: “Oh hell yeah!” (Not terribly delicate, me.)

  He: “Well, your condition does pose some risks.”

  Sound Effect: Screeching tires on asphalt.

  Me: Yes, I know. I talked to my oncologist about it. He suggested the last week of the cycle as optimum, but insurance runs out at the end of the year so I dont have much choice. I doubt we’ll have much of a problem though, because the appointment I have scheduled with your office is six days later. By then, the booster will have already kicked in, and my blood counts tend to run high rather than low.”

  Insert shot: Me handing him a complete history of blood counts to date. Its a big stack.

  He: Well, I’
ll have to call your doctor and see what he has to say.

  Sound Effect: A single heart, beating rhythmically in the otherwise silent room.

  Me, silently: “Shit. Here we go again.”

  You know, I get that most patients dont tend to their own welfare, preferring to let doctor or dentist do all their thinking for them, and simply accept whatever they have to say.

  I dont like it, but I get it.

  And yeah, I get that I’ve never talked to Mr. Dentist Guy before, so he doesnt know me from Adam, but damn. I dont carry that big black accordion folder FULL of medical information around for nothing. It doesnt matter to him that I know my blood counts, that I know the risks and deemed them acceptable for the situation, AND that I can (and tried to) back up my position with information from that stupid folder.

  All that matters to him is that he talk to the doctor. Meh. (and yes, I know I am being *somewhat* unreasonable here, but this crap has gone on since day one, with everyone, except my number one, hired cancer killer, John.)

  The one guy who listens (and hears) what I have to say. The one guy who doesnt automatically assume I am blowing sunshine out my butt or being foolish.

  So naturally, I try to call him before Mr. Dentist Guy can get hold of him. And run smack into Trina. (Knew that was gonna happen, though.)

  The process of speaking to God works like this: Call the office, get routed to the doctor, get intercepted by voice mail from Trina, leave a message, and wait for a call back.

  I’ll give her credit that she does call back rather quickly, comparatively speaking, but when she does, it’s time to fence. Yes, I understand why she has to be a buffer for him, and even agree with it, except when she takes on that *I* have to be buffered. Although I never asked, I am fairly certain John knows I dont abuse the situation, and NEVER call unless there is real need. I hope. :)

  Am I asking for special treatment? Nope. But I am asking to be recognized as out of the ordinary, at least.