Falling shoes

Cancer and cancer treatment somehow failed to make a real impression on me; assuming the cancer didn’t kill me, I figured after treatment I would return to my normal level of physical function and ability.

But with last month’s hospitalizations, I experienced the new and unsettling reality of a possibly chronic condition affecting my ability to inhale, along with everything that requires a good solid breath of air. I felt vulnerable and disheartened, unsure of my recovery, overwhelmed by blood draws, recurring symptoms, and the accompanying pharmaceutical armada that arrived.

Last Thursday, as I started the third week of my tapering dose of corticosteroids, the now-familiar chest pain returned. At radiation I asked the staff to take my vitals and sure enough, my blood pressure was down and my heart rate was up: pericarditis symptoms were back. By Friday I had taken another spin through the ER, which is a pretty handy one-stop shop when you need a quick echocardiogram, chest X-ray, blood draw and EKG. As I hoped, I didn’t need to be admitted, but as I feared, my steroid dose was nearly tripled. We’ll try again to taper.

It’s a good thing Joy and Leah visited over the weekend to pull me out of my dejected state. They hauled a stash of halibut from Debbie and Ben (I think we have enough food now!), dragged us on a long-overdue Costco mission, got up early with Alder, and made us smile.

Monday I donned my fuzzy pink robe and strode past the CAUTION HIGH RADIATION AREA sign one last time. I completed my dose of 6,000 rads or centiGray to the previously cancerous area, rang the bell and hugged Anthony and Dane (Tianna, the third tech, wasn’t there). Despite my sketchy feelings about the treatment, I feel genuine warmth for the staff at my radiation center, especially the three techs, two of whom have Alaska connections. (I never tired of teasing Anthony about growing up in Wasilla.) They welcomed each patient like a friend dropping in for coffee each day, played eclectic music, smiled warmly and bantered readily.  

On Tuesday I met with my new internist, Bob. Bob said all the right things to me, starting with: “You will absolutely come back. … This is not your new reality.”

He pointed out that I finished radiation. My immune system will come back. I’m getting stronger. “All you have to do is relax, believe, hydrate, walk, rest extra, and know that next month will be better.”

He knew a little of my history and I gave him a ClifNotes version of the rest. He said: “You’re wondering, ‘When’s the other shoe gonna fall?’ The shoes have all fallen.”

Not being God, he has no real authority to say it, but I needed to hear it. I need to believe it. The shoes have all fallen.

“Psyche and soma go together,” Bob said. “Believe in yourself.”

I don’t think I realized just how far that belief had fallen until he said those words. I had not taken a walk, much less run, in five-plus weeks. Granted, I was bedridden and attached to an IV pole for much of February. But when I wasn’t, I was felled by fatigue and fear – fear of pain, fear of my body, fear of drugs, fear of blood draws, fear of a compromised future. I stopped racing Alder down the street from the bus stop. I stopped walking to Swedish from the ferry. I moved slowly and carefully, wary of triggering some unknown enemy within.  

Bob’s role was somewhere between cheerleader and diety – with the authority of an MD – telling me to get over it.

I walked out of our appointment down to the ferry, smiling up at the sun, ready to believe. Yesterday I walked and explored from our new townhouse and discovered a small beach ten minutes away. Mt. Rainier was visible in the distance, a shimmering reminder of last summer’s camping trip and adventures to come.

I think I’m ready to find a balance between the frenetic effort to recover immediately (January) and disassociated hopelessness (February). It is March, and the shoes have all fallen. Psyche and soma, mind and body, go together. It is time to strap on the shoes and walk. It is time to begin healing.

Halibut curry, pad Thai, jigsaw puzzle and friends = good times.

Anthony and Dane, purveyors of external-beam radiation via linear accelerator. Aka radiation techs and nice guys.

Alder's new approach to monkey bars.

Meanwhile, Rosie drums with my parents' neighbors, part of our extended village on the east coast.

Fennel-orange salad inspired by Full Circle Farm gift delivery. Chop fennel bulb, orange segments and onion; add olive oil, rice vinegar, salt and pepper (best if dressing is mixed first).

Sunny walk smile.