SLASH BURN POISON DONE (for now)

Treament ends Tuesday.

It always starts with the surgery (slash) followed by radiation (burn) and chemo (poison).  That's the Standard Course of Treatment for glio blastomas nationally.

I got great care from the surgeon and the oncologists.

I've only lost 25 pounds.  Not bad, actually.  I didn't have to go on steroids to complete treatmtent like some people do.  My tongue tasts like an aluminum brick, my head throbs at the slightest provocation, gettting food down is a fight, and my energy is in the neighborhood of -110%.  But I've just about made it through.

Then, I get a break for six weeks before we strap the R2d2 thingy  (OpTune) on my head for eighteen hours a day.  If that doesn't hold the cancer back, we start clinical trials.

It's amazing how many people will blame you for things you have no part in, but cancer changes all the arguments.  You have to be a serious dick to blame people for their own cancer, though it's common practice to hold a college student accountable when she's assaulted (was she drunk?  wearing a short skirt? led him on, maybe?).  Got a little dark there, but I just happened to notice when sudddenly people throw their hands up on your behalf.  Nobody has asked me how much fried food I ate (some, but also salads and green tea) or how stressed out I was on a daily basis (WICKED-always waiting to be laid off again and dreading trying to find a non-radio job) or if I ever tried yoga (bridge pose, downward dog modified, feet up a wall usually once or twice a day) or if I meditated (DAILY, thank you).  CANCER...the word has the weight of a neutron star; people want to run from the room when they hear or read it.  I used to feel the same way.   Then it was just major element of my daily existence.

 Actually, it's pretty much taken over my life since Dr Josh Chow reluctantly told me over the phone in his soft, kind voice that I had the deadliest form of brain cancer.

Since then it's been CANCER/SLASH/CANCER/BURN/CANCER/POISON and I've been the gracious host of the slashing, burning and poisoning.

I'm very, very ready for a break.  Then, get up and get fighting again.

The oncologist made it cleaar taht I don't have to use the optune.  I didn't have to do any of this, actually-I could have refused any of this treatment.  At the outset I was still reeling from the asteroid strike of the news, so I went along with what THE DOCTORS said.  Then, once being in, I think I was going on Polonius' advice in Hamlet:  " Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee."  In parlance of rural Maine, "Don't start any fights, but if you get in one, by gawd make sure you finish it."

I admit that at first I had doubts.  This all sounded like stuff rich people do.  Also I wondered if I was worth saving.  But I have to admit my insurance was there for me.  Insurance DOES work, as it turns out, and there IS a safety net...but you have to be completely hosed before it kicks in (my interpertation is this:  the insurance company figures they won't have to float you much longer because of your truncated lifespan, so sure, here ya go, say nice things about us on your way out.)

Dispatches may increase after Tuesday, although while the effects of the radiation (very annoying visual problems) will wear off after about a week and from the chemo (like depressed immunity, Hello Mask and Gloves) could linger for months.

Thanks for reading, beloveds.