On Thursday, I went to see my doctor again. Nothing special, just a checkup, a look at my blood values, how am I doing. They seem to come weekly now. At this point, I don’t mind. This new therapy is still a bit cryptic to me. Should I expect to suffer so much? Or is there a different way of approaching this?
The doctor had no good answers. He noted down all the symptoms I listed and nodded. There was no “You can avoid this.” or “This will pass.” It sounds as if I were to stay deep in this shit. On the other end of the spectrum, the doctor sounded out my back with his fists and declared with utmost conviction that another drainage of the pleural sac wouldn’t be necessary. The liquid hadn’t returned. He didn’t even need an ultrasound to be sure. He was very happy about this, and so was I. It means that the therapy is keeping the cancer in check. The question is whether it will also beat it back and, almost more critical at this point, how much of the therapy I can endure before my body caves in.
The doctor was also concerned about this. He suggested to continue the therapy with three daily tablets instead of four. I’m normally not one to shy away from a challenge, but I could see the sense in his words. After this weekend, I agree with him even more. My initial rational reaction was that during the first chemotherapy programs, the amount of intravenously administered drugs was calculated according to my body weight. The tablets are given just so. I’m a bit on the light side. If a hefty fellow of 120 kg can happily swallow four pills a day, it doesn’t mean I can.
Thursday marked the end of the first cycle of the new therapy. I was pumped full of drugs, maximally poisoned. Now I have a week to recover. The first three days showed how necessary this is. Friday afternoon, I took a sick day, not something I normally do. I was in no shape to do any work. My brain was jelly, and my body a mess. I slept most of the afternoon. After that, I continued to feel like shit. Flucha did everything in the house, even my few remaining duties with the children.
Saturday was similar. It was a disaster. I hardly moved and hardly did anything. I got so tense that I could hardly sleep the night to Sunday because my back hurt like hell. There’s definitely something to be said for exercise and moving around. On Thursday, it had snowed in Baden. More snow had fallen than during any time in the last fifteen years. It was beautiful to look at – from the balcony or the window of my office where I retreat for quiet time – but couldn’t tempt me outside. I knew I had to move but couldn’t make my body.
Sunday was better. I felt a bit more energetic. In the afternoon we went up the local mountain for some sledding. I had to give up after the first ride because my delicate insides had given a clear thumbs down to the bumps on the run. So I sat by the side getting colder. I’m a cryophobe and didn’t like it too much. But I was happy to be out there. It was progress.
Later, guided by the girl who spends much more time on this mountain than we do, we started walking back to town. No need to spend another 20 minutes on the local bus, which had been a real corona incubator on the way up. The forest was quiet and the air clear. The girl was very proud to be the one leading the way. Stomping through snow more than 30 cm deep, I got a bit more exercise than I had bargained for, but it was all for the best.
The major acute problem that remains is that I can hardly eat. I empty my (small) plate and right away, my belly feels as if it’s been stuffed to the max. My digestion just sits there, doing nothing. It’s like having your belly filled with concrete. I wake up several times a night because the concrete belly just doesn’t feel right. This is something to discuss with my doctor next week. I must not lose any more weight.
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