For the last few days, Russell and I have discussed how bad the chemotherapy affects him. We had to face a round of poison yesterday.
I am bulletproof.
The day after chemotherapy is the best day. The body is fully hydrated with a high potassium level. He has slept during his treatment. His eyes are clear and sparkly. Russell has energy and the desire to "go".
The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak.
I have to be really careful as I rain on Russell's parade. Although he feels "perfectly fine", I know the poison is coursing through his veins. It is destroying the good indiscriminately with the bad.
Having to be the voice of reason after weeks of cajoling to get him to do anything feels like I have horns and hooves. No matter how good Russell feels, I have to curb his pie-in-the-sky desires to be the husband I married. The alternative is disastrous. He does not want to understand his body is still as fragile as it was yesterday, despite how "good" he feels.
A Mylar Balloon
Russell's body floats through chemotherapy like a balloon. The day after chemotherapy he is buoyant, physically and in spirit. Over the next ten days, he slowly deflates and hangs, still shiny, just above the floor.
When the nadir hits, normally on day 13, sleep is the only solace available to him.
Starting the next day, I have a race to fill him back up (with healthy calories, spiritually and fluidly) before it is time to poison him again. Realistically, I cannot undo in seven days what took the poison two weeks to do. When I pump him up, I am using a bicycle pump instead of an industrial pneumatic pump.
Bottled Poison vs. Bodily Poison
The question du jour is:
Is it better to have the poison injected or let the poison within run its course?
This is not giving up. This is reality setting into our life. Each successive treatment means the balloon is less filled before the poison goes into it. Each time it deflates a little further than before. The deterioration is easy to see.
On the other hand, the cancer is not as easy to see. The pain of the broken ribs: See it. The difficulty breathing: See it. The trouble eating: See it. The tremors: See them. The lightheadedness and dizziness: See it. The oxygen-deprivation dementia: See it; hear it; agonize over it.
But what is the cancer really doing?
Not my choice.
If our roles were reversed, I would have forgone chemotherapy. If God is calling me home, I have my ticket in my heart. Mortgage be damned: I would be enjoying the moments I have left after I settled my affairs.
But the roles are not reversed.
The doctor was reluctant to allow the treatment yesterday. Reports on blood work and the overall health report explained how empty the balloon is. Russell wants to fight, and the doctor respected his wishes.
The choice is coming.
On April 19, 2010, we return to the hospital for a computed tomography (CT or CAT scan) of his chest and abdomen to reveal the current state of the cancerous tumors and plaques. Based on the results of that scan, the doctor may refuse to administer any more chemotherapy. At that juncture, the choice may not be Russell's any longer.
Stay strong,
Ann Marie
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