The new normal

I'm reminded almost every day that there are people who have it far worse than I do. There are people who have the exact same cancer I do and who are undergoing the exact same treatment, who are doing worse than I'm doing and having more problems. There are people with other kinds of cancer who also have it far worse than I do. My dentist told me about a friend who has a brain tumor that is inoperable, and so he basically is just traveling for whatever remains of his life. I try to be grateful for the fact that it could be worse, but to be honest, I don't actually feel grateful. Not that I'm currently feeling horrible, mind you, but I mostly feel so-so or worse. I thought by now I'd be back to normal, or close to it, but I guess that's not going to happen.

It's been a little over six weeks since my last radiation treatment. I can't tell if I've at least fully recovered from the radiation, partly because I've now had my first five-day sequence of chemo, which is the next phase of treatment. Five days in a row of a much stronger dose of the chemo than I was taking during radiation treatment, followed by three weeks off, blood tests, then repeat. The last chemo pill from the first five day stretch was taken last Sunday night. The five days of chemo seemed to go okay, but the days since then have been iffy. I lost my appetite again, and it's very easy for me to get exhausted. That seems to be the new normal: a queasy stomach and not much energy. Will it be this way for the rest of the year while I'm taking chemo five days every four weeks? It makes it difficult to make social plans or to get much done. Even writing movie reviews for my blog has become an intimidating prospect, whereas I used to be able to whip them out in an hour or so. It's hard for me to accept these new limitations. I feel truncated and reduced. The mini me.

And I still haven't started the Optune yet. The manufacturer and my insurance company still haven't reached an agreement on payment, apparently. If I'm going to have to pay out of pocket for it, I'm going to have to think seriously about whether it would be worth it. Of course I begin to wonder whether any of this treatment is worth all the money being spent on it, but that's a philosophical/practical-economics question for another day. As much as I realize or try to acknowledge that other people have gone through much more debilitating treatment than I have, the level of debility I *am* experiencing makes me think right now that once this first year of treatment is over, that's it. Come what may. Maybe I'll change my mind once this treatment is over and I'm allowed to really get back on my feet, I don't know. But right now this doesn't feel much like life to me. It feels like an endurance test.

Although there are still moments and days of happiness, of course, as when I went down to Corvallis on Wednesday to visit my brother's family. Lonnie had months ago concocted an elaborate ruse to bring his eldest son over for from Maui a visit without letting my sister-in-law know. I was basically used as a mask for all that. Terry was expecting me, but she wasn't expecting Ryan. Her reaction was worth the price of admission. Even though I felt like crap all the way down on the train and frequently felt like crap during the two days I was in Corvallis, that moment when Ryan came into the house and Terry finally recognized him was a thing of joy and beauty forever. So I continue to snooze a lot, try to get in as much walking as I can, and try to do fun stuff with the people I love, even if it means they end up watching me snooze a lot. It's life, I guess, but not one I feel content with.