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.