Miracles

Miracles

Thursday, January 5, 2012

The Real Deal

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 
Yes, I know it’s been quite a while since I have blogged. Don’t think I haven’t thought about it every single day. I have missed writing...tremendously...and, specifically, I have missed writing  to you, more than I can express. During the last month, the  days  just overflowed and toppled into each other, without any breaks or time for me to catch my breath. It’s been one thing after another...
Taking care of someone receiving chemo and radiation treatments five days a week is a full time job, all by itself. Getting Anthony to his treatments became the focal point of our days. Most everything else revolved around those treatments and how they affected him. Special meds, with special directions, at specific times. Special foods, special drinks, special clothes, special sleeping arrangements...etc., etc. We went nowhere without packing a bag with supplies and snacks and meds and a change of clothes, and whatever else I could anticipate needing. Needless to say, we‘ve gone very few places...none of them very far...mostly all of them treatment, doctor, or hospital related. It’s a whole different way of life.
Just as Anthony was suffering the worst of his treatment-related symptoms, tragedy struck our family. We lost our dear cousin, Ryan (only 27 years old), to lymphoma in December. His passing hit home...and it hit hard. Anthony fell into a funk for several days. Only God knows all the thoughts that must have gone through his mind. The same weekend Ryan passed, my sister was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit at Torrance Memorial, in critical condition. She had a urinary tract infection and, due to several other underlying conditions, complications set in, she became septic, and almost died. After more than a week in the hospital, she was finally discharged and continues to slowly recover at home.
Several weeks ago, I mentioned (in one of my emails) that I’d been having some problems with my arms and hands. My symptoms have become more severe, with a significant increase in pain. I can hold a pen only long enough to write my name, and typing....well, I can type a few words before I have to stop, massage my fingers, then rest a bit before continuing. I have seen the doctor a couple times now, and have been going through a series of diagnostic tests. If I thought it would make a difference, I would say that I can’t handle one more thing going wrong, but I know better. The truth is, we all handle what we’re given, as best we can; so, whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. I will let you know when I find out what is going on.
As if all the above was not enough to deal with and keep us (me) very busy, Christmas was still on the calendar and could not be rescheduled. The kids and I managed to put up a tree and a few decorations, here and there...just enough to make the house feel festive and lift our spirits. Anthony loves Christmas, so I really wanted to make things feel as “Christmas-sy” as possible. I am happy to say that, during the last few weeks, he has spent many hours lying on our living room sofa, admiring the tree and the garland-laced mantle, his heart warmed (with or without a fire in the fireplace) by the Spirit of Christmas. Mission accomplished.
So, now that things have calmed down a bit, I have been writing, a little at a time, and have managed to put the following together. I’ve tried to include as many details as possible in order to catch you up on what’s going on with Anthony...specifically with regard to his illness and treatment. Here’s where we are today:
Anthony finished 6 weeks of aggressive treatment, consisting of daily chemotherapy with concurrent radiation, on December 22, 2011. He hung in and endured some really difficult days and nights. He battled debilitating nausea and fatigue, and suffered  through bouts of vomiting and persistent diarrhea. The last 2 weeks of treatment, from my observation, seemed to be the worst, in terms of these awful side effects. He even had to skip a couple of days of treatment, here and there, because he was just too sick and too weak...There was no way he could get up, let alone walk. (The 2 or 3 days he skipped were tacked on at the end, so he didn’t really miss out on any treatments...just postponed them.) 

I wrote the following about a week before his treatments concluded. I didn’t post it then because it was right around the time my cousin passed away and my sister fell ill. Oh...I forgot that right around the same time, I also participated in a Christmas concert at church, directing my choir. I was busy with rehearsals and the performance. (Anthony was too sick to sing with us, but he did attend the concert!) Anyways, it will give you an idea of how the cancer treatments affected Anthony...and me. I called it The Real Deal: Uncensored.
The Real Deal: Uncensored

In the shadows of the dimly lit room, I barely recognize your face. Are those really your eyes, so hollow, so dark, so tired? Where are the cheeks, rosy and round, I’ve held in my hands and kissed over and over and over again? Now, when my lips brush against your face, I can trace the laugh-less contours of your bones. Leaving my kisses in the hollow spaces of what used to be you almost feels as empty as the spaces themselves. 
Is this what happens when a horrible disease ravages the body? Or is this part of the horrible treatment necessary to combat the horrible disease? Fighting fire with fire? It seems more like fighting an atomic bomb with another atomic bomb, just as lethal. How do we tell the difference? Is there a way to find out who’s winning right now? At this point, the treatment and the disease both seem like bad guys and they are duking it out inside my Anthony’s body. And we’re all just standing around watching this thing go down. Waiting. Watching and waiting. Maybe my hair isn’t really falling out....Maybe I’m actually pulling it out because I am so nervous...watching...and waiting.
I keep telling Anthony, “Only five more days of chemo and radiation, Babe. Just five more days.” But, what do I know? What do I know about living one day in hell...one hour in hellish agony? Yesterday was the lowest of the low, the sickest of the sick...every single waking hour...suffering. I understand why he was losing his nerve and thinking about laying down his sword, even if only for a minute. I’m not going to lie...I thought I might walk into the room and see Anthony calmly sitting, waving a little white handkerchief, a flag of surrender. I thought I might find his weapons cast aside, and Anthony resolved, and ready to accept defeat. 
After sitting with him for hours, I finally sneak away for a few minutes when he falls asleep. I retreated, and backed myself into a safe corner and cried. And cried and cried and cried until my eyes were dry and red and sore. When I got up to wash my face, I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize the person staring back. Could that really be me? What happened to my eyes that breathe life into everything they see? With my hands cupped, I filled them with water and splashed it over my face, hoping to erase that lifeless person looking back at me through the mirror. As I slowly opened my eyes, a multitude of faces stared back. Disappointment, confusion, sorrow, fear, anger, devastation...they all looked at me with those hollow eyes, pleading for a sign of hope. When I could muster none, I sank back down to my knees and wept, this time quietly, almost gently. Anything else would have required too much energy, too much feeling.
So this is what it’s like. This is the real deal right here. I hold nothing back. This is part of the journey and, unfortunately, you can’t pick and choose the parts you want. It’s not like a travel package where you get to take this tour or that, eat here or there, browse through an art gallery or see the city sights. Nope. Doesn’t work that way. You get what you get and you do your best to accept it with grace and dignity.
See, you try your best to start each day hopeful. You tell yourself it’s a clean slate, a blank page, and there’s a full palette of colors waiting to paint the day.  You start out hoping and praying for a beautiful picture. Some days, everything falls into place, and you smile with delight. Other days...well...other days, things just don’t come together... Colors clash, proportions are off, and every brush stroke is awkward, labored. But, you hang in there and accept that day like any other. I know...it doesn’t seem fair. And, believe me, it’s definitely not easy. Sometimes, real life is neither fair nor easy.
Back to the present......
In addition to chemo and radiation treatments, for the past seven weeks, Anthony has had a weekly paracentesis...a procedure to drain excess fluid from his abdominal cavity. (He will continue to have this procedure done every Friday, for as long as necessary.) On “paracentesis day” we usually spend several hours at the hospital...if everything goes smoothly. Any glitches in the system, the schedule, the orders, etc., and a few hours quickly turn into a very long day. Each time the procedure is done, some of the fluid is sent to the lab for analysis. The peculiar thing about Anthony’s fluid is that, as to date, no cancer cells have been found in it. None. Both his oncologists, several of the oncology nurses, and many other health care professionals working on his case...all having dealt with ascites (excess fluid in the abdominal cavity) in pancreatic cancer patients...have never seen this happen! We’ve been told that the fluid is usually “full of cancer cells.” Usually. Well, anyone who knows Anthony, knows there is nothing “usual” about him...and I very much mean that as a compliment! 

As of today, Anthony has had about two weeks free from chemo and radiation. He is still very fatigued and continues to suffer with intermittent bouts of nausea, but nothing like before. His doctor told us it would take at least two weeks (without treatments) for him to notice a difference in the way he feels, and we are now starting to see some spots of improvement. As a matter of fact, he had a pretty good day today! We make sure to pay attention to those gifted moments when Anthony actually feels hungry and wants to eat, or when he can be up and about for a few hours without feeling sick or exhausted. These are the moments we live for...the moments we celebrate. Because these are the moments that give us hope.

They are also the moments that give birth to miracles.