I've actually started the listening for the next article in the My Favorites Artists Series, Rush. They have an extensive discography, so it's going to take awhile, but I think I can get through. I might have a little free time coming.
Might even use some time to pound out a few more album reviews I had wanted to get to but haven't been able to. And SOTD looks to be back at full strength, so we'll see if we can keep that going (and if I can keep from getting too crazed by it if we do).
As for the med stuff, I had the port surgically placed into me last Thursday, and had my first chemo treatment that afternoon. They changed the chemo plan at the last minute, based on the fact that a second biopsy has determined a point of origin for the cancer - it started in the bioducts in the area between my liver and gall bladder.
The treatment itself was, dare I say, almost pleasant. They gave me nice nurses who put me in a comfy recliner and gave me a blanket. After the first one gave me some extensive education on this protocol and what to expect, I mostly listened to my MP3 player for the next 3 hours (which gave me a chance to start re-listening to my potential Album-of-the-Year stuff).
One thing I've learned quickly is that when people in your life who have gone through chemo or helped a loved one to go through it try to tell you about it, they often can't, because there isn't really just one chemo - everyone's plans get individually tailored with different chemicals and time periods, based on where the doctors believe the point of origin is, what stage you're in, etc. I was literally in surgery to get the port put in when the doctor called Denise about the results of the redone biopsy. This changed which chemicals they used, how often they want to give it to me, etc., on the spot, so when I went in for the chemo an hour later, I was getting a different treatment than had been planned just earlier that day.
I felt pretty strong Thursday night, the night of the chemo, and when I got up Friday, I felt like I could wrestle a tiger.
Then, the combination of chemo/cancer did something cruel and unexpected. Throughout the course of this experience, because the majority of the cancer has settled into the lining of my stomach, sitting has been hard. Almost anything I sit on puts pressure on my stomach, which makes it very uncomfortable to sit anywhere for more than a few minutes at a time. The only two places I was comfortable were in my nice, high bed with a firm mattress (and that was for laying, not sitting) and my comfy old recliner chair.
This chair was long past its shelf life, but it was huge, and soft, even though its days of moving as a recliner were long gone. (It was originally an electric recliner. When she was younger, my daughter used to delight in occasionally unplugging it on me when I was reclining in it, leaving me helpless like a turtle on its shell while she would laugh at me.)
But these days, it listed seriously to the right, and was stuck in a position with the footrest partway up. And as I've gotten noticeably weaker over the last few months, it was getting harder and harder to get out of. It required a sort of one-hand push off from my right hand, which was getting harder and harder to do. And Thursday night was the night I suddenly couldn't do it anymore. The arm was strong, but the legs weren't fully strong enough to push off and take my weight.
It took both my son and my daughter's boyfriend, two of the strongest young men I know, more than 15 minutes working together to get me out of that chair without hurting me. It was both a frightening and humiliating experience.
So we had to finally get rid off my wonderful, comfy old chair. And so far, although I'm starting to learn to some workarounds for this old hospital recliner my sister-in-law lent us, it's been hard to stay in the family room for any significant length of time.
Then, on Saturday morning, the second day after the chemo, the effects hit, and I felt like I'd been run over by a Mac truck. I slept for almost all of Saturday and Sunday, and half of Monday. I couldn't hold much food down, and I didn't feel like eating. It felt like the end.
By Monday night, I started to come out of, and by Tuesday I felt better - good enough to at least organize my work mailbox and start trying to figure out some temporary work arounds to work in the living room. (We ordered me a new chair, which my mother-in-law is giving us as a gift, bless her loving heart. But it probably won't arrive for another week or two).
So that's where I'm at today - trying to get a sense of the cycle of my reactions to the chemo. I'm scheduled for a week off from chemo next week, and then back in the saddle the week after.
So here's my hope. Right now, it's still mid-August, and my doctor is hoping this treatment will improve how I'm feeling in a few months. The last set of unused concert tickets that I bought are for Annie Haslam's 75th birthday tour with Renaissance, playing right here at the Patchogue Theater in November. We've got fifth row seats. That gives me three months to maybe feel a bit better, gain some strength back and maybe actually make this concert.
Wish me luck with that, gang!
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Here's one local music nugget that I'm excited about. I got an email last week letting me know that Tara Drouin (nee Tara Eberle) of Iridesense, is releasing her first solo album on Paradiddle Records on August 23. It seems to be called Silver Linings. (I'm not 100% sure on that, though.) In any event, Tara has always been one of my favorite vocalists, so I'm definitely psyched for this LP.
