Individual Service, Not Individual Servings

Kev was rummaging in the pantry for "a little something" (remember when we were young and 'a little something' had NOTHING to do with anything in the pantry? But I digress...) to eat and asked if I had thrown away the chemotherapy snacks.

He said the pantry didn't have the "make-me-want-to-vomit" smell he associates with certain chemotherapy snacks. I know what he means. He's talking about the savory seasoned crackers of various brands that come prepackaged in little individual servings.

Or almost anything that comes prepackaged in those little foil bags. Bite sized Oreos, Cheese Nips, Chex Party Mix.

It's a chemotherapy thing reminiscent of the treatment days in Lafayette.

It's the way he was often offered a snack without anyone ever actually looking at him. Just one hand slapping a bag of crackers into another, seemingly anonymous, hand. Only it wasn't anonymous to Kevin. It was his hand. Attacked to his body. Which was there being treated with scary crap designed to kill scary crap.

The little foil bags and savory cracker smells are what has stuck with him to become a trigger for a nauseous reminder of everything he came to hate during those weeks.

It's just another one of those places where he needed to be seen, heard, felt and, instead, felt overlooked, unseen, unheard in a crowd.

The fine line between individual service and individual servings.

When a Door Opens, at Least Take a Peek Inside

I'm still assimilating what we've learned in the past 11 months.

I would like to be able to pour out a lot of spiritual insight and how it was earned. (Typographical note--I meant to type "learned" and managed to drop the 'l'--seemed appropriate so I left it as "earned." Kevin and I worked hard, in our respective roles, for every day of this.)

I've got miles to go before I "get it" but a few things have occurred to me in recent days.

Looking way back to the day Kevin was diagnosed and the immediate early days afterwards, I've realized if a door unexpectedly opens-however you believe such things happen; be it God, karma, fate or good business connections-don't close it without at least a look inside.

Within hours of Kevin's diagnosis we had two separate--completely chance--experiences of having the same medical oncologist recommended to us. The first was in a phone call I took from a woman I have never met who wanted to purchase a photo from me. I explained why I wasn't available to meet that day and was given a wealth of information she had gained through personal family experience with cancer care in Lafayette. The second was when Kevin and I ran into a long ago neighbor who had worked in both hospitals in town. Both persons recommended the surgeon and radiation oncologist names we had from the hospital on Friday morning. And both, without saying a single negative word about the medical oncologist suggested by the hospital, offered another name with glowing recommendations.

We talked about canceling the appointment with the first oncologist and scheduling with the second. Weeks later when realizing the first office wasn't really a great fit, we talked again about calling the other oncologist. In the end we gave in to the overwhelming tide of adapting our lives to cancer and did nothing.

Seeing it now with hindsight and the experiences we've had both here in Ohio and in Lafayette, I would tell anyone else to go and meet with the second oncologist and tour the facility before making any decisions.

The treatment plan probably would have been the same in both places. But cancer care involves many many hours in treatment and office appointments. The physical facility, the attitude and number of the staff, the location, the hours, the environment are all very important because of the amount of time and the emotional impact involved with cancer care.

That's the insight of the day: When a door opens, at least take a peek inside.

I'm Local

I'm putting my new Ohio residency to the test by entering some photos in the local county fair. Kevin finally tired of my waivering about entering and took the form to the fairgrounds himself.
I guess I'm officially 'local' now.

Un-Chemotherapy Day Continues

We're still trying out the fit of un-chemotherapy day; we've expanded the celebration to include the entire treatment period that had become our norm for this week.

In keeping with the un-ness of the week:

***Kevin did not wake last night to answer nature's urgent call only to be jerked back by the anchor of a chemotherapy pump attached to IV tubing, attached to huber needle imbedded in his chest.
***Our normal household smells are not intertwined with the weird chemical smell that goes with chemotherapy week.
***There is an empty space where the hazardous medical waste container used to reside.
***I'm not baking sweets today in order to coax Kevin into eating.
***There is no tray of goodies assembled to take to the clinic tomorrow because there is no Friday visit at the clinic for Neulasta.
***There was no morning phone call from the home care nurse before she stopped in.
***Kevin isn't wearing his usual Thursday tattoo of chemotherapy week--sticky tape residue and red welts.

Welcome to the newest version of our new "normal"--it's going to take a little time to figure out!

Birthday Nostalgia

Happy Birthday to Kelly!

It feels strange to live so far away from the girls on their birthdays. I'm not sure why since they had all left the family home--even the hometown--long before we moved to Ohio.

Birthdays seem a little more nostalgic these days. I think a cancer diagnosis in the family changes the way you think about time. Years past and thoughts of those in the future--or not--become more precious.

Memories of Kelly's birthday comes with those smells of summer--sunscreen, bug spray, chlorine and food on the grill. So I spent today remembering making birthday cakes shaped like turtles, buying new bikes, cook outs in the backyard with family and friends, scavenger hunts, pinatas and swimming pools.

Happy Birthday, little girl!

Happy Un-Chemotherapy Day

Guess what we aren't doing?

We aren't getting ready to go to the clinic.

There's no chemotherapy pump sitting on the hall table.

No bag of snacks and room temperature bottles of water waiting on the table.

We didn't fall asleep last night to the lingering smell of NAIR.

I don't have a bag packed with a book, a magazine, Kevin's medical files in brief and an assortment of Tylenol, Pepcid and decongestant.

We don't have a list of questions--and answers--ready for Dr. Skinner and we haven't bet on the usual Tuesday question of 'Will she forget and order the Neulasta for tomorrow instead of Friday."

I'm not thinking of the grocery store run I have to make in order to get something baked for the nurses on Friday.

It's NOT chemotherapy day. Not today. Not tomorrow. God willing, not ever again.

Happy Un-Chemotherapy Day!

Grand Times Continued

Paige and Rob came over to retrieve Josh.

They intended to walk in the local Relay for Life event with Kevin but it was stormed out shortly before their scheduled walk time. We packed a lot into the weekend before and after the storms. Kevin was glad to get a nap yesterday afternoon and again today.

Findlay Market was our first stop yesterday morning. We picked up the goods for a spontaneous picnic at the overlook in Eden Park then drove home past Coney Island and through the Fort Ancient valley. We had a nice family dinner over in Waynesville and stopped by the gorge and dam on the way home. This morning we stopped in at Great Wolf Lodge. Josh showed his mom and Rob all through the resort and spent an hour on a Wizard's Quest.

Kevin and I enjoyed the time at Great Wolf too. We found a nice sofa by the fireplace where we could sit back and watch the coming and going of Josh & Co. as they canvassed 3 floors of the place on the Wizard's Quest.

The sofas are pretty comfy at Great Wolf--it was a grand place to finish a week of grandparenting.

Josh hung out at Kevin's office today while I went off for my now weekly appointment with Patient Peggy, the Nurse Practitioner. In fact, he's still over there.

Peggy will call next week with today's test results. We're working through the whats and whys. I'm still tired much of the time. Really really tired.

But having a little boy around may be the cause of that! And I feel much better than I did even a week ago.

I checked in with Kevin after I left Peggy's office. Josh was busily playing on the computer in his office and they plan to come home for lunch. I have enough time for a nap before they get home.

I'll need it. Josh and I have bike riding plans for this afternoon.

Being Grand

Kevin and Josh are watching a movie. From the laughter you would think they had never seen Cars even though this is at least the third time they've watched the movie together.

I've been sifting through photo files here on my computer and watching the boys enjoy the movie together. The tractor tipping scene sends them into teary eyed belly laughs and they replay the scene a second time. Kevin ignores the evening influx of emails on his Blackberry and calls go to voice mail for a couple of hours.

This afternoon I handed Josh one of my cameras and steered him out back. Two hundred digital files later, he had the hang of focusing the camera, using the zoom feature on the lens and using the eyepiece instead of the live view screen.

This is the 'grand' part of being a grandparent. The ring of the phone dims under the laughter of this child. You don't care if there is dusting to be done or if supper will be late. A few sprinkles don't deter you and you don't worry about grass stain on your jeans. You don't see the $500 price tag when you hand your camera to your grandchild, you see the tiny butterfly he found that you've missed a hundred times before. You get to be a hero and a genius all rolled into one when you identify a terrible screeching sound as an ugly but harmless cicada.

It was a grand day for all of us.

A Boy in the House

Joshua came home with us last night. We stopped in Indianapolis to pick him up. Our home now shows the unmistakable signs of a small boy in residence--tiny metal cars, Wii games next to the TV, a small green bike parked at the door.

Josh decided to explore the woods this afternoon. It's important to be ready for anything when one explores in the woods. It's dark and wild beasts dwell within.

Armed with binoculars, a flashlight, water bottle and a broom, Josh made a tentative foray into our green jungle. It seems a broom is an invaluable tool--it can ward off an attacking chipmunk as well as brush aside leaves and limbs. Josh handles the broom like a ninja and demonstrated his cat like agility before leaving for his journey into the wooded realm.

Kevin had a long work day today but mustered up the energy to be grandpa once he got home. After supper he and Josh headed into the woods for a greater exploration. Josh waded in the water and found groundhog holes dug deep into the creek banks.

I've spent months now marveling at the life sustained in our small woods and now I've seen more of its magic through the eyes of a boy. I think both the woods and I are changed forever.

Gene and Ed

"I want my funeral to be a happy, joyous occasion, not a time for sadness...I'll be watching from heaven and remembering all the good times."---Genie Yeoman

And so we celebrated Genie's life today with her family and many friends at St. Tom's. I believe everyone felt her there with us.

She would be pleased, I think. There were tears, but there were many smiles and it was all mixed with the joy of being together and remembering her.

I watched Ed off and on throughout the morning. He and Genie were married for 55 years. And he's been her caregiver in these recent times. Just as Kevin has this special identity with Genie, forged through a winter of illness and prayers, I feel a similar kinship with Ed as caregiver.

Ed has done well and he's shown me the way many times over. I admire him tremendously.

Kevin is very tired from the travel today. We left home this morning at 5 and returned around 9 tonight. He was in bed and asleep within minutes of walking through the door. I hope his dreams are filled with Genie's jokes, her stories and her smiles.

The Next FoodNetwork Star

Doctors have a lot to watch over with a patient on chemotherapy. There are the BIG side effects that will kill you fast and the insideous ones that will kill you slow or change the quality of your life to the point that you think you might prefer death. Those, rightfully so, are attention grabbers.

The smaller things--like the nasty taste in Kev's mouth that makes him feel like throwing up--don't get a lot of attention. They can control the nausea if you want the baggage that comes with taking another drug, but the nastiness remains. Sort of an ever present reminder that something is not right within.

For a guy who used to list "lunch" among his hobbies, this is a big deal.

He's frustrated that it goes on. He endured it--grudgingly--through chemotherapy as part of the deal. Now that chemotherapy is over he would like his mouth to cooperate and get back into the game.

So our seasoning and taste testing quests continue.

The Food Network is missing an opportunity here. They should consider a new show, something like "Cooking Through Cancer." I'll host.

Father's Day and Family

Father's Day picnic at the lake. Always a lot of family and extended-extended family. Fishing, canoeing, swimming, eating.

Kevin got to spend a little time with all three of the girls. We visited with family at my sister's lake. Spent a little time visiting Mary--she's still recouperating from her moped accident.

Went to Mass at St. Tom's and were happily mobbed by Hannah, Andrea and Evan. Stole baby Beatrice from her parents for the first part of Mass.

Had the very happy pleasure of handing a sack stuffed full of leftover medical supplies to Barb at St. Tom's. This was all the stuff unused, unopened from Kevin's care. Barb will direct it someplace where it can be used.

Felt good to imagine some good will come out of the remains of Kevin's cancer.

Unanswered Questions

Drove over to Lafayette today thinking it would make the weekend easier for Kevin if we split the travel over two days.

Paige and Rob met us at St. Tom's for Mass. St. Tom's feels good. It just feels good to walk in there. Even today when sad news greets us at the door--Genie died early this morning. The news wasn't unexpected--she has been so sick for so long. I'm glad we were at St. Tom's though. It was easy to think happy memories of her there.

Kevin is exhausted tonight. The physical side of chemotherapy and traveling along with the emotional impact of hearing about Genie. I think cancer leaves you hearing about someone else's death and wondering why it wasn't you. There's a certain amount of guilt that seems to walk hand in hand with surviving cancer, at least for Kevin, and much of the time there are more questions than answers.

Celebrating, With or Without You

If we overlook the increasing side effects of this week's treatment--and the chemoradiation that's not going to be done (the proverbial elephant in the room)--it's time for a little celebrating. Even if Kevin isn't up to it yet, everyone else is ready to celebrate for him.

No more chemotherapy is a big deal. Finishing on your feet is a bigger deal.

Co-workers have been dropping into Kev's office today to see how he feels and congratulate him on finishing. After all these months, they know the schedule by heart.

It was injection day and the oncology nurses surprised him with a card and a mug. Lots of hugs.

No more oxaliplatin. No more leucovorin. No more 5-FU. No more huber needles and skin eating tape. No more saline flushes that leave a bad taste in his mouth. No more heparin locks. No more IV tubing tangled in the bed sheets by morning. No more infusion pump. No more neulasta injections.

Even with the treatment doubts and the side effects, this is--indeed--good.

A Medical Vacation

The patient Peggy--the Nurse Practitioner to my recently acquired doctor--called Wednesday morning.

"If I tell the desk I want you worked in on my Friday schedule, will you promise to come in?'

"Promise?" Sheesh. I'll bet Kevin gave her a heads up.

I can hear it.

"Yeah, this is Lorri Sweeney's husband. Make her promise. Get a pinky swear out of her if you can."

I like the way Peggy comes in the office door with "I KNOW you hate being here..." At least we're starting out on the same page.

I've been telling Kevin for months that my increasing tiredness is my way of being sympatico to his struggle with chemotherapy fatigue.

We are tired of doctors, labs and all things medical. With the end of Kevin's treatment we are looking forward to a medical vacation. Some period of time with no appointments, no labs, no tests, no procedures.

Turns out I am anemic. Peggy and I negotiated her talk of tests and transfusion down to a prescription for iron supplements and a recheck at the lab in two weeks.

We're going to have some rest around here. Take a medical vacation. And a nap.

A Quiet Riot

I think we expected fireworks.

Or a marching band.

Maybe an airplane trailing a banner...."Kevin finished chemotherapy today!"

Instead Kevin felt sick and exhausted and slept for 2 hours at lunch and another 3 hours this evening. The Man-Couch comes through for him again.

He's disappointed. He hoped all of it would be done promptly at 10 a.m. today. Side effects, changes, adjustments would all be disconnected from our lives as surely as the chemotherapy pump would be disconnected from him.

I'm more practical (It's easy to be practical when you aren't the one with the miserable side effects.) I reason that his body doesn't know it's the last treatment. All it knows is that it got slammed again with another dose of chemo-poison.

Or maybe it does know. Maybe what he sees as a let-down, another betrayal by a body that wouldn't celebrate with him today, is actually his body saying, "It's over. I've done well and I can rest now. I can begin to recover. I don't have to get him through it anymore because, dammit, we ARE through it."

There's something to be said for those quiet celebrations we hold within.

Is Pepcid an Entre or Dessert Course?

Kevin was practically giddy this morning. He had a day long techie meeting scheduled in Dayton and was like a kid in a candy store.

I was worried about him driving so far alone the second day of chemotherapy, having a long day then driving home. He was more concerned about dragging along the appropriate electronic toys and gadgetry.

Packed a bag with the snacks he would need to push off that between meals nausea, something safe for his lunch, juice, water and a requested candy bar.

Unpacked a bag with the snacks, the safe lunch, juice and water.

"What did you do about snacks and lunch today?"

"Oh. Well, I ate some."

"Oh? I just unpacked a full bag, minus one candy bar."

"Oh. I had some candy bars. And a little pizza. Five pieces. And I really pushed the liquids."

I raise an inquiring eyebrow.

"Pepsi."

Betcha he wants Gold Star Chili for supper.

Sometimes it's better to just go along. I can have Pepcid as dessert.

Cycle 6-15, Up and Running

Kevin was in Heidi's capable hands today at the clinic. He did ok with today's infusion and through the afternoon and evening. Alternated napping with working from his home office.

Made an appointment with Dr. Skinner to meet in a month and talk about his ongoing observation. She brought up the 5-8 weeks of additional chemoradiation. Kevin declined. Again.

Kevin continues to feel confident about his decision to have no additional treatments. What I want is for Kevin to be in a place where he will feel it was the right decision now, no matter what the future brings. I can support that kind of decision.

Since it's chemotherapy day, he got to call lunch. Today it was White Castle. With extra pickles. He always says he doesn't feel like eating and only wants 1 or 2 of the little grease bombs. Then he always eats 4.

There's something wrong about the image of the guy with rectal cancer eating White Castle burgers--sort of like the guy with lung cancer who smokes as he leaves the clinic after chemotherapy.

Side effects are as usual--headache creeping in, cold sensitivity increasing in his mouth and hands, nasty taste worsening. I saw him looking at his chemotherapy pump this evening. I know he was reassuring himself that it is, indeed, counting down the hours.

Chemotherapy Day

Cycle 6-15.

Last chemotherapy day. Usual preparations: pushed him to drink lots of water yesterday, got out chemotherapy pump, packed juice and a snack, reviewed our questions for Dr. Skinner.

She's going to bring up those additional weeks of chemoradiation. She'll respect his decision and not push him, but I know she and Dr. Ling think it would be in his best interest to try it again.

Kevin and I talked until late last night; a sort of verbal review of the past 10 months. Where we've been, what we're thinking, what's changed.

What might change more yet.

He's anxious about today, this week. Side effects. Moving forward.

Being done.

His day needs to begin first though. He's sleeping a wonderfully sound sleep this morning. I waiver between wanting to let him rest longer and an eagerness to begin this day so we can see it finished.

"Finished" sounds pretty good right now.

The World Needs More Marlyns

We've pretty much hit the jackpot when it comes to the people who make things like insurance and medical billing happen. Given the quantity of tests, treatments and traumas, insurance and billing have, overall, been smooth sailing.

It helps, though, to have encountered some Marlyns along the way.

Marlyn works for the large regional group system that includes much of Kevin's cancer care--chemotherapy, radiologists, nursing, lab, hospitalization. With the bulk of his medical care billed under their name, a typical monthly bill runs in the $30,000 range.

A couple of months ago my frustrations mounted against an immovable force of an anonymous woman who wouldn't/couldn't attempt to investigate a billing problem for me. Normally, I'm no pushover. That day, though, I was overwhelmed with the ongoing storm of Kevin's care and this little wave felt like a tsunami. I shoved the papers in a cubby hole on my desk and let them drift for the next six weeks.

Today I forced myself to make another attempt with the billing office. A woman identified herself as "Marlyn" as she answered my phone call. In minutes Marlyn had the information she needed from me and asked if she could call me back with an answer. In a short time Marlyn was on the phone, confirming she had located the error and corrected our account.

I now have Marlyn's direct office phone number in my files. I know that she is off on Wednesdays through this month and she knows Kevin's chemotherapy is drawing to an end and we are hoping to never have to light up her phone line again. Marlyn sounded genuinely pleased to hear Kevin is recovering.

Marlyn was so efficient and helpful that I wouldn't have minded if the error had been found on my side rather than the billing office. I would have felt good about understanding it and been happy to pay it feeling Kevin's case was getting attentive care from all angles.

The world would run better--and we would all feel better about it--with a few more Marlyns.

Weekend Reflecting

We are home in Ohio now. Hard to imagine that 5 months ago I was pretty certain I would never be "home in Ohio."

Kevin has already fallen asleep. The weekend of travel and visiting left him exhausted. Me too but I need to unwind a little before sleep will come. I don't know why I'm so tired these days; I tell Kevin it's my way of being supportive--sharing his tiredness.

It's quiet tonight--it's usually quiet here, but tonight is a particularly nice quiet after such a busy weekend and I'm enjoying the memories.

Brother--er, Father--Patrick's ordination was beautiful for so many reasons. His story, his journey to this point, is a wonderful affirmation of faith and knowing what we know of it made the day even sweeter. Our other Patrick was the photographer of the day and, as I look through the digital files of his photos, it's a joy to see the smiles lighting up Father Patrick's face throughout the weekend.

I made a little montage of some of Patrick's great photos of the day.

Celebrating the ordination with dear friends from St. Tom's just added to the sweetness of the day. Joan, Johanna, Zelda, Charlotte and Patrick met us at the Cathedral so we could sit together. We all went to the lunch at St. Tom's afterwards then met again on Sunday morning for Father Patrick's first Mass.

Even more amazing was the surprise of seeing Elaina Balser at the ordination. She is friends with the newly ordained diocesan priest and was there to celebrate his day. We barely had a moment to visit before our schedule and hers called us in different directions but it was a wonderful gift to even get to say hello in person. John wasn't with her--he was at a conference in another state. I'm glad she was able to see Kevin and can report back to John! Kevin may not feel great, but he looks wonderful and it's always reassuring to friends to see him looking much better than they might imagine.

Saturday night was devoted to Andrea's birthday and spending some time with Kate. Another late night but rewarding in time spent with people we love. Miss Kate has written a song relative to her recent break-up with James and she brought her guitar to the pool to share it with us. It's a good piece. I'll try to get a recording of it and post it here sometime.

This morning we headed out after Mass and met Kelly and Paige in Indianapolis for lunch. There's a good chance we won't be able to be there later this month for Kelly's birthday so this was a nice time to celebrate in advance. It was fun to spend some time with the girls and Kevin had the satisfaction of knowing he had time with all three of his daughters. He misses the individual time he used to sneak in with each of them.

We had to squeeze in a quick stop at the house in Lafayette--sewer problems for the tenants. This is the kind of thing I dreaded when we became absentee landlords. We'll have to call Mark the sewer guy tomorrow to deal with it. And I am resolved to not over work it in my mind in advance.

So I'm going to return to the pleasant recollection of a weekend filled with faith and friends and family. Good night to you and may God bless you all!

Sleeping the Sleep of a Man Well Loved

Kevin is sleeping the blissful sleep tonight of a man adored. I think his eyes were closing before his head hit the pillows.

It's hard work being adored.

He and Kate went out to dinner--just the two of them--for probably the first time since those conference trips when she was still in high school. He said walking downtown with Kate on a Saturday evening really is like Norm entering Cheers--everybody knows her.

He sealed the deal on his wonderfulness when he hauled Evan, Andrea and Hannah off to DQ for banana splits at 10 p.m. after they had been swimming in our hotel pool for 4 hours.

You don't make a lot of enemies with spontaneous dinners downtown and banana splits an hour after bedtime.

"family" Doesn't Always Swim in the Same Gene Pool

Weekend in Indiana.

Brother Patrick will be ordained and Miss Andrea is celebrating her 7th birthday.

We're looking forward to seeing each one--friends from St. Tom's, the kids from daycare, our girls, my family. The support of these people has kept us going through this last year and the way they've continued to be with us even over the distance between Lafayette and Cincinnati is humbling. Making the time and effort to call, to email, to send pictures from the kids, to ask how he is and listen to the answer, and to share with us what is going on in their days has eased many of Kev's worst days and kept me from feeling like I am alone in taking care of--in caring for--him.

Kevin has decided we'll miss the family gathering in Indianapolis. Mostly it's the fatigue of a long day of travel for Kevin. The drive over will wear him out and I expect him to nod off at the Cathedral. He doesn't feel like he can drive another 90 minutes then make it through an evening family gathering--which would be the first time he's seen much of his family since before his cancer, the first time he's talked to his brothers since before his cancer and one of the few times he's talked to his sisters. His mother is no longer able to keep track of who she sees when and she tires easily, especially in a crowded situation. We will stop to visit with her on another weekend.

So there we are at the other side of not going to the "Family" thing in favor of the family thing. The lingering hurt and bitterness about the neglect of Kevin aside--and it is an aside because it's a pop-up when something reminds us, not an ongoing gnaw inside--sometimes being "family" has nothing to do with a shared gene pool.

It has to do with sharing.

Be Careful What You Promise...

...because it might come back and bite you in the rear years later.

The word "patient" in any of its incarnations wouldn't generally describe me.

I used to buy out of Kevin's urgings to get me to go to the doctor by promising him that I would be better at it some day far in the future when I was no longer running the daycare. My premise was that running the daycare made it next to impossible to keep a doctor's appointment.

It wasn't like I could just let the kids stack up in my "in box" until I got back or work a little later to catch up on time missed during the day.

Although the stress and chemicals of chemotherapy have left Kevin occasionally reaching in his mind for a last name or a date, he managed to recall my promise this week after Sunday's fainting episode.

If waving the promise wasn't enough, he threw down the cancer card and reminded me of how bad he feels when I won't let him do what he can these days to take care of me. He's a smart man and generally reserves that trick for things like getting Skyline Chili for lunch.

I got lucky and snagged an appointment with Peggy, the Nurse Practitioner. Both Peggy and I survived the encounter which says a lot about her patience with me as patient. I agreed to having some blood work done and Peggy extracted my promise to return in a couple of weeks.

And Kevin is pleased for the reversal, however brief, of our roles of patient and caregiver.

Intellectual Knowledge Versus Experience

Kevin is frustrated by the continuing--growing--side effects of chemotherapy. The neuropathy has increased and is interfering with simple tasks like buttons and keystrokes. He trips alot because of the numbness in his feet. He drops a lot of things--or squeezes a glass until it breaks--because his fingers won't communicate if he's got a grip on something or not. He feels achy and overall flu-like much of the time and his energy level is kaput.

All expected results of chemotherapy and all proof that you can intellectually know something yet not really know it until you live it.

My research indicated he would see an increase in the quantity and duration of side effects as chemotherapy continued. And we have been cautioned several times by both medical staff and other patients to expect a cumulative impact.

So he knew it could happen.

But in his mind he is ramping down to finish this deal and he hoped the physical side effects would be gracious enough to ramp down with his mindset!

One of the frustrations of chemotherapy is the inconsistency of reaction. There are commonalities and a few definites but it's still a lot of wait and see. Kevin can count on a certain amount of cold sensitivity, neuropathy, nausea and general rotten feeling each time. But the quantity and duration of the effects varies somewhat. There's some relativity to things we can control in his environment but a lot of it just is what it is and he's always left guessing as to how he'll feel on any given day after treatment. And disappointed when he feels worse than he thought he would--or should.

He's got the heart and determination of a lion though and continues to go to work each day--10 or 12 hours of each day. I think a little moderation might help here but 'moderation' isn't part of Kevin's work ethic. And when he argues that work keeps him from focusing on chemotherapy and getting too sucked up in the accompanying misery, I can't really make a case for change.

Be Less Obvious....

...that's my new motto after I fainted in Meijer today. Right in front of all the checkouts, face planted on the floor.

My mother would have told me that "nice girls don't draw attention to themselves" and been annoyed as hell with me for not timing things better.

Sorry, Mom.

I wanted to make a joke about being done in by the shock of seeing our grocery bill; however, even in a just fainted fog I could tell Kev's sense of humor was absent for the moment.

Kevin told me later that foremost in his mind was "If I over-react to this and make too big of a deal, she's going to kill me..."

He's right.

In our younger days of parenting Kevin was the "OHMYGOSH SHE'S BLEEDING" parent when one of the girls skinned a knee. I was the "Eh. Let's sleep on it--that arm could look a lot less broken by morning" parent.

(He's better, though, at the long haul than I am. I get through the moment, hit a wall and quit. Kevin recovers from the initial panic then keeps chipping at the wall until we're through.)

I'm telling myself that the real time vision of my face bump-bump-bumping down the front of a Meijer grocery cart was much more graceful--like a choreographed ballet--than it could possibly have been.

In reality I'm certain it was the sort of moment that makes winners on American's Funniest Home Videos.

The graceless landing left my face bruised from chin to forehead. I've been giving Kevin a hard time.

"Sweeney, you were supposed to catch me! Did you drop me flat on the floor?"

I think it may be payback for those cold early morning sponge baths in the hospital.

My mother would approve.