Thursday, March 31, 2011
Second Photo of the Day
Facebook, prayer and cancer
Hi again! We are still in the chemo chair, some 4 1/2 hours later. Taking a little longer than we'd hoped because I turned out to be allergic to one of the drugs, which inolved stopping, injecting me with lots of antidotes, starting again, repeating the whole thing. Hours longer than we were supposed to be here, but I am breathing nicely again and getting the drug I came here for, so it's all good. We are taking people up on their offers of child-schlepping our very first day. Thanks, ya'll!
The support from our community has been incredible. Our communities are spread here and there, with concentrations at Sandy Spring, at our church in Derwood, in Oregon and California and Ireland and Japan and England. Among others.
A lot of this has been arranged via Facebook. Once again,in a recent conversation, I found myself defending the social usefulness of Facebook. I know some people disagree, but for me, communication is made easier by it. This morning I had a cheery message from a friend from my high school debate team, whom I haven't seen in years. Via Facebook. John has been getting support from people he ran cross-country with in college in Cape Town. And yesterday, my son wrote on Facebook that, "Cancer, chemo and radiation, my mom's bouta kick all your asses." Within hours, there were 56 messages of support in reply from young friends. Some were kids I've known since they were 6 years old. Some were teammates of my kids who'd gone off to college. Some were kids I didn't even know. But it made me feel so psyched up and strong. I printed out two notes they sent me and folded them up and put them in my coat pocket. They are my war medicine.
The support from our community has been incredible. Our communities are spread here and there, with concentrations at Sandy Spring, at our church in Derwood, in Oregon and California and Ireland and Japan and England. Among others.
A lot of this has been arranged via Facebook. Once again,in a recent conversation, I found myself defending the social usefulness of Facebook. I know some people disagree, but for me, communication is made easier by it. This morning I had a cheery message from a friend from my high school debate team, whom I haven't seen in years. Via Facebook. John has been getting support from people he ran cross-country with in college in Cape Town. And yesterday, my son wrote on Facebook that, "Cancer, chemo and radiation, my mom's bouta kick all your asses." Within hours, there were 56 messages of support in reply from young friends. Some were kids I've known since they were 6 years old. Some were teammates of my kids who'd gone off to college. Some were kids I didn't even know. But it made me feel so psyched up and strong. I printed out two notes they sent me and folded them up and put them in my coat pocket. They are my war medicine.
High Water Mark
Today's blog comes from the friendly confines of Dr. Frederick Smith's chemotherapy parlour in Friendship Heights, MD. If I counted right, I am having at least 7 different things pumped into me right now, and so far, so good. Had an echocardiogram this morning and my heart looks great. That's good news because it means we can do badass doses of even this one really nasty drug. I am also on serious amounts of steroids that would make Mark McGuire blush, so nobody had better cross me right now.
However, please forgive lots of typos because my left hand has got a big IV thing stuck in it. I can feel all of everyone's prayers. Thank you!
It feels great to actually be DOING something about this stupid cancer. The tumors have grown and were starting to be painful. But last night, my daughter Julia, who is 13, gave me a great perspective. This is, we hope, cancer's high water mark. At Gettysburg, you can see the line where the Confederate army got this far and no more. That's where we are now, we hope. "You start getting better tomorrow," Julia said, and that is the way to look at it.
However, please forgive lots of typos because my left hand has got a big IV thing stuck in it. I can feel all of everyone's prayers. Thank you!
It feels great to actually be DOING something about this stupid cancer. The tumors have grown and were starting to be painful. But last night, my daughter Julia, who is 13, gave me a great perspective. This is, we hope, cancer's high water mark. At Gettysburg, you can see the line where the Confederate army got this far and no more. That's where we are now, we hope. "You start getting better tomorrow," Julia said, and that is the way to look at it.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
First Photo of the Day
Chemo starts tomorrow. Serious steroids/anti-nausea medicines start today.
Photo of the Day
One thing I want to do with this blog is put on some kind of Photo of the Day.
Last year, during the big blizzards, I loved looking at the time-lapse videos that showed the snow piling up on the deck chairs of some guy's back yard in New Jersey. I want to do a similar thing, starting today, before I begin chemotherapy tomorrow, and ending whenever I wind up looking "normal" again, whatever that may mean in the end. I want to get a time-lapse view of how a person looks plunging into this, bottoming out, and coming out the other side. Twice in the last several years, I have run into acquaintances who were in the darkest part of their cancer treatment. I had not even known they were ill. They looked like death. But one of them moved away, out of state, and one just moved in different circles, and I never did see them again as they got better. I would have liked to have seen that part of the story, too. I think maybe some day a photo record like this might prove encouraging to someone that wants an idea of how this process can go. So, please humor me this self-indulgence. Thanks.
Of course, now I have to locate a tripod and figure out how to use the time-delay feature on this tiny camera...
Last year, during the big blizzards, I loved looking at the time-lapse videos that showed the snow piling up on the deck chairs of some guy's back yard in New Jersey. I want to do a similar thing, starting today, before I begin chemotherapy tomorrow, and ending whenever I wind up looking "normal" again, whatever that may mean in the end. I want to get a time-lapse view of how a person looks plunging into this, bottoming out, and coming out the other side. Twice in the last several years, I have run into acquaintances who were in the darkest part of their cancer treatment. I had not even known they were ill. They looked like death. But one of them moved away, out of state, and one just moved in different circles, and I never did see them again as they got better. I would have liked to have seen that part of the story, too. I think maybe some day a photo record like this might prove encouraging to someone that wants an idea of how this process can go. So, please humor me this self-indulgence. Thanks.
Of course, now I have to locate a tripod and figure out how to use the time-delay feature on this tiny camera...
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