I took a couple days off work last week because I started chemo again. I took the dog for some short walks (this stuff makes me dizzy, I wasn’t up to long walks), ate bland food, started writing. Thought about a nap. Took some anti-nausea medication. Admired the light diffusing the cool blue sky and the fractals of ice on the puddles on the sidewalks. Played tug-o-war with the dog.
January 10 was Su’s birthday. We went to medieval things all weekend — Friday we heard the Sequentia Ensemble for Medieval Music: an evening of “Charms, Riddles and Elegies”, then Saturday we heard a harpist and storyteller named Benjamin Bagby to tell Beowulf. It was amazing. Music and words from the deepest, darkest winter and from the deepest, darkest ages of Anglo-Saxon history. We were both transported. We met there a doctor with whom Su worked, and she sent Su a note later. Here’s what it said:
I felt like I was being bathed in testosterone!! The Song of the Vikings, killers and pillagers.
I thought it was pretty funny us nerdy whitehairs sitting with folded hands murmuring “How beautiful” about all that gore and galloping that sounded like it was written for 8 year old kids!
But the poet let the cat out of the bag by mentioning birth in one of two comments about women in all that torrent of words. Every mother has a tale of blood and heroism, terror and wonder, much fuller of wonder than the Grendel story, the story of her baby’s birth! (I think my Viking roots are showing, I’m one upping smugly just like Beowolf did the drunk at the party).
That was just an orgy of womb envy.
We laughed and laughed — Of COURSE! It’s all womb envy — women go into battle all the time — ALL THE TIME — and unarmed, thank you very much, just as Beowulf went against Grendel. I never did. Well, not the birthing part. I left that to 80% of the women of the world. I dare say a great proportion of those women never had a choice about whether or how many children they would have, either. but I digress. as I do.
I meant this to be a bit of a chemo diarly. I just took the 11th dose of procarbazine. only 4 to go. Then a week, then a small amount of Vincristine intravenously (it’ll take about 15 minutes). Then a couple of weeks and a rest from it all. I can’t wait for that part. You know, generally I like hospitals. I like the MRIs, and I really enjoyed the last intravenous session I had. It was a windy day, and from the 6th floor, there’s a pretty good view of the city and the mountains behind the sticky-uppy buildings and construction cranes. In the wind, it looked for all the world as if the clouds and the cranes were dancing together. Very graceful and subtle, like a baroque minuet. The waiting room on the sixth floor is super comfortable, too, with a big jigsaw puzzle on a table, and coffee and tea, and sometimes biscuits or fruit, too. a few chesterfields, and some recliners, too. very nice. But I’m tired now, and a bit dizzy, and nauseous most of the time, so I’m about ready for this all to be done.
I’ve got it super easy, though. Last time I was there for my IV, I shared the room with a young person. She had a big bag of something dripping into her. She looked like she may have been 30, but possibly younger. Every other time, I’ve been on the younger side of the average age. Mind you, I don’t know. I don’t feel like I look as old as other 57-year-olds I know. But I do. That young woman, she was all curled up on a chair when I got there, looked like she’d been there for an AGE, and when I left, she was still curled up and quiet. Hunkered down. I don’t know what the chances are for people. Once the nurse introduced me to another person with a brain tumour. But that person’s tumour ended with “blastoma” rather than, as mine does, “glioma”. Anything with “blast” in its name can’t be good. What do you say to someone? I probably didn’t say the right thing. “Oh, I think I have a nicer tumour than yours”, and I realized how that sounded and stumbled — “We are in the best place, though, for treatment”. God. He was gracious about my stupid comment. Smiled kindly.
It’s cold. The Scottish-moors-in-the-dead-of-a-dark-ages-winter-cold. Su is making some wonderful soup that smells amazing (my appetite has been unaffected — still 16-year-old-boy-ish), and the electric ‘blanket of love’ is on the bed, and I’m worn out. I’ll go to work tomorrow, and I know that the moving about and the people will perk me up NO END. Because they always do.
Oh! also! I registered to compete in my first powerlifting contest in 25 years!Here’s a picture:
I’m so excited. Then I feel a bit nauseous. It’s six weeks away, March 21-22, so I have time to get in shape. My goal is to qualify for the provincials. There are 49 women competing! FORTY-NINE! Last time I competed there were a handful. This is gonna be great. Today at the gym, ‘great’ felt a LONG way away, but I will just keep doing on thing at a time. It’s nice to have a goal. And a generous coach, and a great gym.
Anyway, that’s it. My hair is growing back. People have given me some lovely toques and hats, which is good because my hair looks weird. All baby fine in one area and curly pokey thick everywhere else. I should go ask my friend to cut it again — she’s a great barber and she’d do a nice job. Plus we think the world of each other, and when there’s so much admiration flowing through scissors and clippers, you can’t go wrong, can you?
Not quite it — did i tell you? it’s working. The radiation, the chemo, all of it. It’s shrinking the tumour. All is going according to plan. Not as fast as MY plan would go, but then again, I’m a terrible planner. Whoever’s doing it can carry on.