You
know, I fully expected to suffer from chemo brain. They told me it was going to
happen. It happened to my brother when he had colorectal cancer. But I didn’t
expect it to last this long. I finished chemotherapy in July, for goodness’
sake. It is now late April. But I am still not playing with a full deck, as
they say. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, or the brightest crayon in the
box. I hope this gets better over time!
Parts
of the old brain seem to be working fine. Emotions seem okay, no more wacky
than ever. I can still read and write and draw and paint. But remembering basic
facts? Or what happened yesterday? Or if I’m supposed to go somewhere and do
something? Not so much.
Last
week, after an early-morning soccer game, a bunch of us went out for breakfast.
I sat next to a woman I’ve known for, oh, eight or ten years. Her daughter goes
to our school with Julia and they’ve been on the same soccer team for years,
and I still could not remember her name to save my life. I had to ask her,
eventually. (Note: if I ever see you at a function, do not expect me to
introduce you to anyone, because there is a real good chance that, even though
I know all your kids’ names and where they are going to school and how your mom
is doing, I cannot remember who you are.)
My kids
find this interesting and occasionally amusing. We will be in a conversation,
and I will get distracted while trying to think of a word. Meanwhile, the
conversation leaves the station without me. Three minutes later, I will locate
the word I was looking for and answer the question, which was about, say,
broccoli, and everyone will say, “What?” Because now, everyone else in the
conversation is discussing a band called the Wombats, and my contribution,
“cruciferous,” is no longer relevant, but it is kind of funny. So everyone
rewinds for a moment until we figure out what I was trying to communicate. I
may say this is damned annoying to a person who, in 1978 or so, won the Montana
state championship in Extemporaneous Speaking. I used to be sharp. I could
think of words. I miss that.
Things
that I do every single day, I can usually remember. For instance, my kids have
been going to their school for at least thirteen years now, and I can generally
remember even now that they get out one hour early on Wednesdays. But throw me
a curve ball—move a piano lesson from Tuesday to Wednesday, or throw in a makeup
for a rained-out soccer game--and I am going to forget something or
someone. Will I remember to show up for that
one volunteer task I signed up to do at church for a half-hour every two weeks?
Ha ha ha. Will I remember what times and fields my daughter’s soccer games are
next weekend, and whether she should wear her home or away uniform? Hell, no. Thank
God for computers and cell phones.
My
friends who are not chemo-impaired tell me that I should work it. They say they
have the same sort of problem, only it’s due to menopause or lack of sleep or
stress. I have the best excuse ever, they say. I should play that cancer card!
But the fact is, if I played that card every time I could, they would take away
my drivers’ license and my credit cards and my sharp objects.
So
instead, I am trying to do what my medical authorities say I can do to hang
onto the brain cells that are left, and regenerate a few if possible. I am
taking vitamins. I am eating fish and vegetables and healthy things. I am
exercising a lot. I am getting more sleep. (Actually, that last one is an
outright lie. Why did I say that?)
One
thing I am trying to do, and it has turned out to be a lot of fun, is to give
the poor old brain some new activities to amuse it. Studies have shown that
this works with people who have Alzheimer’s disease and other dementias. Maybe
it will help me, too. As it happens, some of these activities were on my bucket
list, anyway, so it’s sort of an efficient use of time, in an inefficient way.
Example: I am learning to read music and play the
guitar. This was on my bucket list; I was not going to die without learning to
play the guitar. I am practicing and all that. But apparently, not efficiently.
Nobody can call my progress “fast.” The same information surprises me over and
over. My long-suffering guitar teacher, Jeff, is very patient while I try to
figure out where that F note is. No, that’s an E. There you go. That’s right.
Yep, we learned that six weeks ago. Never mind.
Jeff likes me anyway, because I am
the only student he has, probably, who is old enough to know or care who the
Flying Burrito Brothers were. Meanwhile, my nine-year-old son, Matt, is also taking
guitar lessons from Jeff, and Matt is and soaking this stuff up like a ShamWow
soaks up spilled grape juice. Play an E minor harmonic scale? If I am going to
try to play one, first it takes me a couple minutes to remember the word
“harmonic,” and then I give up and look it up in my notes. And then I try to
remember which finger is supposed to play D sharp, and then it takes a while to
figure out how to get that finger over there. Meanwhile, Matt
is playing this same scale from memory, and in different octaves, and fast. It
just flows out of him, without effort. Sigh. For me it is hard work. Is that
because I’ve been poisoned with badass chemotherapy drugs, or am I just getting
old? I will have to compensate. I may not have a young, healthy brain, but I
have earned, the hard way, a boatload of determination.
Determination is my secret weapon.
With it, I am trying to stay organized enough to keep the trains moving. We are
doing soccer and lacrosse and track at the same time. Will I remember to turn
on the washer so that the uniforms are clean? With God’s grace, I will. Or
maybe somebody else will. In between loads, I continue to seek novelty to
fertilize those alleged new brain cells. The literature suggests I try
crossword puzzles and jigsaws. Not my cup of tea. Instead, I have been taking a
fairly intensive class at church on the book of Romans. (Which I studied,
actually, at Oxford, but guess what? I don’t remember much of that!) I have
been loving my book club. I have started going to concerts, when we find one
that John and I can agree on. And for the first time in years, I have been
doing some oil painting. It’s easier now that my kids are old enough that I
don’t have to worry about them trying to drink the linseed oil or the
turpentine. If we can keep me from drinking the linseed oil, or cleaning my
brush in my coffee, there is still hope.
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