Blank stare, blank stare, blank stare.
Did you know that Sagittarians are deathly allergic to baloney? We are also made of fire and are brutally honest creatures. We speak our minds to the point of oversharing and are often awkwardly inappropriate. But no one can tell us we don't have integrity!
There is a reoccurring aggravation that keeps showing up in my life in different instances. I keep wondering if it affects me so deeply because of my birth place in the zodiac, or if I'm simply a human who fairly expects other humans to possess a crumb of virtue. I just want people to give me straight answers. I want my colleagues to do it, I want the president to do it, I want my doctor to do it.
On Monday, I had my fifth chemo infusion. I went into the appointment thinking I was on the home-bound stretch of halfway done--number five of eight prescribed infusions. I would be done with chemo by May. As long as my scans showed no sign of lymphoma, I could have this PICC line removed and carry on with my life, just in time for summer.
Let me pause the story for a minute to iterate how unpleasant it is to have a tube permanently hanging out of your arm. I can't sleep on it. I can't bathe or swim with it. I can't shower with it unless I wrap my entire arm in Press'N'Seal. I'm not allowed to put my head below my heart in case I were to dislodge it. It is an awkward bulge under all my clothes. When I wear short sleeves, everyone wonders why I have a lumpy sock on my arm. It is a total boner-wrecker:
Just imagine how sexy I will feel this summer in all my translucent, pale glory (chemo makes me ultra-sensitive to the sun), sulking in a sun dress, sweating my balls off under a wig, with a tube dangling out of my arm, while I watch my friends joyfully jump off a pontoon boat into a lake. This is all I could think of as I sat in my doctor's office on Monday while she casually remarked to me, "Now remember: we'll have you do a PET scan between your fourth and fifth round of chemo." Fifth round? I was told I would do four rounds and if all looked good, I'd be free, and otherwise I might to do radiation OR an two additional rounds. I swear, I even have the notes written in the doctor's own hand to prove it! "No, I'm sorry, you misunderstood. There was a lot going on when we first discussed this. Six rounds is protocol."
I was crushed. I've been doing so well. My numbers are great. I felt like I was on my way to early release for good behavior and suddenly someone decided to add two months to my sentence. Moon in Taurus set in. My moon sign does not like surprises. The optimism and fire of my sun sign ride smoothly on the stable, steady wing of my moon sign. Now the two were nose-diving into the dark abyss of melancholy that lurks in the back of my psyche.
I walked out of the appointment, into the infusion room. I tried to forget everything. I smiled at all the nurses and made small talk. I laughed at all the corny commentary from the neighboring old timers in the chairs next to me. But when my favorite nurse, Anita, grabbed my chart and came by to bring me my first dose of drugs, she must have seen the glazed look in my eye. Anita was the very first nurse I met when I came to Aurora Cancer Care. She taught my one-on-one "Intro to Chemo" class back in January. That chilly Friday morning, as she ran through the potential side effects of each horrendous drug, I sat grimacing from the pain that was shooting through my left arm. After the teaching was over, she sent me for an x-ray and ultrasound and it was determined that I had a blood clot from my PICC line. Remember that story? Anita was the one that had to pull the PICC line out of my arm, much to the horror of my husband and father, who sat watching, not realizing that about two whole feet of bloody tube would be yanked from my vein. My weekend began with that adventure and ended with me going in the hospital and having heart surgery. (There are two more gorgeous scars we can add to my upcoming summer look.) When I didn't come in for my first chemo, Anita was really worried. She asked my doctor what had happened and when I finally came in a week later, she embraced me like an old friend. So, ya know, Anita and I have been through it. She's my girl.
"How'd your appointment go today?" she asked, unraveling cords from the IV stand. I went silent. Anita paused and looked deep into my gaze, and I couldn't hold back the tears. I told her through gasps of breath about the two surprise extra rounds of chemo. She sighed with a look of disappointment. "You're not crazy," she said. "That is what the doctor told you." She remembered that during our first meeting in January, I had mentioned doing four rounds, and it had struck her as odd. She had told me that six rounds were typical protocol, but I showed her the notes that the doctor had given me. She said we should confirm that, but apparently the subsequent blood clot/lung fluid/heart suffocation chaos must have distracted us both from revisiting the subject. So here we were--on Monday--left with nothing to say, just staring at one another with an identical look of discontent.
I went home that afternoon and buried myself in bed. Thankfully it began raining, which is a melancholic's favorite weather condition. I gave myself 24 hours to stare at the wall and hate everything. When my time was up, the sun came out and I went for a run. I ate a tostada. I rubbed my face on my cat's fur. This is how I carry on.
Last week, I had 39 more days ahead that I'd need to fill with optimism. Now I have 95. Let's hope there aren't any more surprises, or I might not be willing to endure the journey.
