Went into my second round of chemo today with a bit of apprehension after last week's episode. The nurse said reactions are typical the first time out and I'd probably be fine, but I did note that she sat me next to her station, "Just in case."
So I crossed my fingers and nestled in for the long haul, the IV of toxic sludge hooked to my right arm and a stack of books and magazines piled to my left. Not an ideal way to spend a crisp autumn morning, sure. But any doubts I had about treating my blood disorder with something as potent as chemo were laid to rest earlier this week with a reminder of what MGUS is doing to my body.
I was sitting on the sofa,watching one of my favorite shows, Parenthood, when I noted that my feet felt like blocks of ice. Lacking any ready volunteers to heat them with a massage, I rubbed one between my warm hands and realized, with a jolt, that my foot didn't feel a thing. Nothing.
It felt like I was holding someone else's icy foot between my hands.
I've been warned that only one third of people with MGUS respond positively to chemo. But that night, holding "someone else's foot" in my hands, confirmed my decision to proceed with treatment. It's my only hope. If I don't respond, nerves will continue to be destroyed and, well, I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it.
But really, I'm one of the lucky ones. MGUS is not terminal. It's only, as Dr. Bee Gee expressed, "a major drag." As I looked around the chemo ward, I saw people of all ages fighting real life-or-death battles: Shrunken frames, bald heads, and sunken eyes filled with nausea, fatigue and despair. Spouses, partners, families and friends sitting by their sides, holding their hands and hoping for a miracle. While I'm reading Budget Travel magazine and dreaming about my next vacation, these people around me are dreaming about survival.
Puts things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, a numb foot might be a "major drag," but it sure beats the alternative.
So I crossed my fingers and nestled in for the long haul, the IV of toxic sludge hooked to my right arm and a stack of books and magazines piled to my left. Not an ideal way to spend a crisp autumn morning, sure. But any doubts I had about treating my blood disorder with something as potent as chemo were laid to rest earlier this week with a reminder of what MGUS is doing to my body.
I was sitting on the sofa,watching one of my favorite shows, Parenthood, when I noted that my feet felt like blocks of ice. Lacking any ready volunteers to heat them with a massage, I rubbed one between my warm hands and realized, with a jolt, that my foot didn't feel a thing. Nothing.
It felt like I was holding someone else's icy foot between my hands.
I've been warned that only one third of people with MGUS respond positively to chemo. But that night, holding "someone else's foot" in my hands, confirmed my decision to proceed with treatment. It's my only hope. If I don't respond, nerves will continue to be destroyed and, well, I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it.
But really, I'm one of the lucky ones. MGUS is not terminal. It's only, as Dr. Bee Gee expressed, "a major drag." As I looked around the chemo ward, I saw people of all ages fighting real life-or-death battles: Shrunken frames, bald heads, and sunken eyes filled with nausea, fatigue and despair. Spouses, partners, families and friends sitting by their sides, holding their hands and hoping for a miracle. While I'm reading Budget Travel magazine and dreaming about my next vacation, these people around me are dreaming about survival.
Puts things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, a numb foot might be a "major drag," but it sure beats the alternative.
1 comment:
Your stories on Elvis and Lucy struck a cord with me.
Sending you my best wishes. Best of luck with the chemo treatment; I sincerely hope you fall into the lucky "one-third."
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