But, my main description was going to be about the joy I felt that these toxic chemo sessions are done, and that I will be able to recover and soon feel better.
You are going to have to wait for that post, as I still have two more treatments left.
Why didn't I know that, you ask? You certainly would know the exact date when your chemo was over, right? Of course you would, everybody would.
There's a constellation of
Halfway through my six rounds of Carboplatin and Taxotere I started getting neuropathy. My oncologist thought it was too early in the treatment for the severity of the side effects I was feeling, and that I wouldn't recover after it was over. So, he switched me to weekly Taxol. Different drug, smaller doses, more often. I went from Taxotere/Carboplatin every three weeks to Carboplatin every three weeks and Taxol weekly.
During that time, the office went to an Electronic Medical Records system. So, while it has been entertaining hearing the colorful language coming out of the mouths of chemo nurses as they learned the system, those of us who started with paper and got put into the system later meant it was harder for them to look up our old treatment schedule.
The nurses thought my last day was today.
I believed them, sort of, but also thought something was amiss. So, I sat there over the course of days, literally, trying to figure it out. As many times as I sat there and counted up the dates I'd thought I'd been, I couldn't remember or make it come out right. Not with a calender in front of me, and not with my iPhone. That kind of high-level thinking (counting weeks) is way beyond me now. I relied on an older post where I said it all comes out the same in the end, which would be today's date, and hoped for the best. Chemotherapy causes short-term memory loss and processing problems in many people and sadly, I am one of them.
I lost my date.
(I might have been like that before and have finally found the perfect excuse for why I can't remember anything, but if so, I'll never tell.)
Oh, by the way, if I owe you an email or something, I'm sorry but I forgot. Chemo Brain. The check is in the mail too. Chemo Brain. Was I supposed to come to work today? I'm sorry, I forgot.
The moral of this story is: don't count your chickens before they hatch if your brain is pickled with chemo drugs and the people you rely on to hatch said chickens switch from paper to electrons.
I'm really not feeling the joy at the moment. To continue with the lame metaphors (Chemo Brain) I thought I was crossing the finish line after a marathon, and I find out I'm only at the 20 mile marker.
Making that last six miles is going to be awfully hard.
My happiness post is now postponed.