Chemo Floyd

The effects of chemotherapy are bizarre to say the least. I started this cycle out without much nausea, but as soon as I thought I was out of the woods (and took one or two fewer anti-nausea pills), I'm back to feeling sick. But it isn't just sick to my stomach. There's a nasty sweet taste in my mouth -- no, it's not just in my mouth, it's in my entire body. In all my bodily fluids, even. It makes food taste bad; I'm ravenous but not hungry at the same time. Eating anything sweet seems sickeningly superfluous. I'm living on pasta and cheese and craving bacon and pork chops and other savoury things.

Meanwhile, two nights ago I had another all-nighter -- I was waltzing around the house as though it were broad daylight, not the least bit interested in sleep, full of energy, watching Pink Floyd concert DVDs with the sound up full blast. I didn't have to be anxious because I knew I didn't have to go to work in the morning. I was in a perfectly fine mood. But like last time, after about half an hour's sleep, I got up at 8 a.m. feeling like a dishrag, and I've felt exhausted and queasy ever since.

After a week of the blues, I resorted to music therapy (see Pink Floyd above; actually it was David Gilmour at the Royal Albert Hall, accompanied by David Crosby and Graham Nash, and David Bowie -- maybe it should have been called the David Show). I was saying to Diane that I was feeling new effects of "chemo brain," an inability to focus that I developed during chemo five years ago and never completely recovered from. I was pacing the floor a lot (also partly because I can't find a comfortable position to sit or lie in) and it seemed as though my brain cells were not lined up in the right direction. Music -- everything from the Monkees to the late Oliver Schroer's haunting voilin recorded in cold empty churches along Spain's Camino de Santiago pilgrimage -- seemed to help create some order in my brain again.

"Like defragmenting your hard drive," said Diane, and I had to agree it was the perfect analogy. Not that I ever defrag my hard drive, since I have a Mac, but I've seen it done, and I can picture those little coloured bits arranging themselves between my ears.

Pollyanna moments:

• Drove to Kitchener with my brother today to see Mom and Dad and my sister, and it was great to be out of the house and in the (apparently to be short-lived) spring sunshine. Even if I did feel like I was going to hurl most of the way.
• David Gilmour's enduring, still clear and light and fresh voice and guitar work on "Wish You Were Here." I remember one summer evening about six years ago after I'd just visited my friend Adele, who was days away from death, at Princess Margaret Hospital, when I was sitting on the curb waiting for my streetcar, and there was a young busker nearby playing "Wish You Were Here" on a guitar. Another young man was sitting near me, and we both spontaneously began to sing. It was one of those urban summer moments that sounds corny, and I suppose was corny; but it's a great tune.