!@#$% Death

Yesterday was my first chemo day. Got a late start; as last time, my doctor failed to put the orders through and seemed surprised to see me there. They have new reclining chairs with heated seats, but I was still uncomfortable. I'm really only comfortable lying down on a soft surface, like my own bed. I wasn't as nervous as before--obviously it's old hat now--but I really enjoyed the company of several friends who dropped me off, picked me up and stopped by during the day (as well as a visit from an aunt and uncle who were in town to see their son, who was in intensive care in the same hospital with blood-poisoning brought on by a staph infection he acquired during surgery). I'm used to sitting among hairless, be-tuqued folks, some of whom look miserable and sleep all day attached to their IV poles, others of whom are chipper and chatty. The best part is that the same nurses work there who were there five years ago, and they're wonderful and, as important I suppose, familiar to me. It feels kind of like home. Except that one of the really friendly administrative staff I loved five years ago has since died of ovarian cancer.

The day before, I was in surgery all day having the Porta-Cath inserted. It's like a tiny Staples EASY button underneath my skin just above my right breast. To inject drugs or take blood, they still stick your skin with a needle, but they don't have to mess around looking for a vein; they simply poke through the skin on top of the crown of the button, which is plastic and about the size of a dime, and they're in. The button is attached to a tube that runs through what I think is my jugular vein to the vicinity of my heart.

So...45 minutes ago I had my first vomiting session despite all the anti-nausea medication. It was preceded by an hour or two of mild nausea and chills, which, combined with my back pain, made me fairly miserable, but I have to say that the whole episode was not nearly as bad as Norwalk virus, which I've had two or three times. And now I feel quite a bit better. The question is, how often will it occur?

A friend nervously handed me a gift the other day, worried that she had not accurately assessed my sense of humour, but I got a great laugh out of it: a black mug with stark white letters reading "FUCK DEATH." Apparently a young artist she knows has a website called fuckdeath.org, with the ambitious plan of eliminating the Grim Reaper from the universe, a plan I think could only come from young folks. The more realistic plan may be to sell a bit of merchandise. But I appreciate the sentiment. Even so, I struggle with this notion of not going gently into that good night. I admire people who arrive at a place of acceptance when death draws nigh, and I hope I can have that kind of equanimity.

I've always hated that stupid word battle in connection with cancer ("Died after a long battle with, etc."). Not only is it a cliché, but it seemed to me that in the end humans are foolish to think they have much choice in the circumstances -- cancer either gets you or it doesn't. I've been known to say I didn't want that word battle used in my obit. However, now that I've got advanced cancer that nevertheless may not kill me imminently, it does feel like a battle. I just don't want to be battling right up to the last minute, is all.

I think that coffee mug has a flexible message, actually, since the word fuck has so many meanings. And I expect to be dancing many different dances with death before I'm through. (That metaphor is not mine: I picked it up from a book called How to Ride a Dragon: Women with Breast Cancer Tell Their Stories by Michele Tocher.)

Pollyanna moment: Last weekend some friends invited me overnight to their place in Burlington -- chauffeured me there and back and waited on me hand and foot. Their two dogs, a standard poodle and a German shepherd, are mature and well-behaved and lovely to be around. The shepherd in particular is dear to me simply because I love shepherds and the last dog relationship in my life was with my brother's shepherd, the late Ruby. My friends' dog lavishes much attention on me, and I assume it's because he can tell I'm drawn to him. Later I wondered if it had anything to do with the reports that dogs can detect cancer...