When curative yields to palliative…
Don’t forget to check some of my favorite blogs:
http://sparrowchat.com - Sparrow Chat -
http://priceofliberty.net - The Price of Liberty is Vigilance
http://www.democrats.com/blog/8223 - Bob Geiger
http://www.crooksandliars.com/ - Crooks and Liars
http://www.thinkprogress.org/ - Think Progess
http://www.nocapital.blogspot.com/ - No Capital
http://cernigsnewshog.blogspot.com/ - NewsHog
http://www.cursor.org - Cursor
http://www.mockpaperscissors.com/ - Mock, Paper, Scissors
http://tumblingvice.blogspot.com/ - Tumbling Vice
http://left-over.blogspot.com/ - Left-Over
Glossary for newcomers:
Chief of the Counterfeit Compassionate Conservative And Oh Yeah By The Way Conspicuously Caucasian Caucus = George W. Bush
Dither of Dolts = The Bush Administration and heads of agencies
Lint Twins = The Bush twins, who, like lint, are neither useful nor decorative
Shithead = Karl Rove. To save typographer's labor and print space, this combines the two soubriquets frequently applied to Mr. Rove: Bush's Brain + Turd Blossom = Shithead
XianXrazies = Any group professing to be Christian which believes the faith excludes any of humanity from the hope it presumably offers since Christ's sacrifice or which believes it has successfully learned to read God's mind or which believes God wants followers who are drafted or gathered by impressment or which believes God hates or wants anyone else to hate those who do not believe in Him.
Ambulatory Emetic = Condi Rice, Secretary of State, aka the cacophagous, fawning bitch cur that slithers and crawls behind her master. A gourmand of whatever shit he deposits, she mixes it with her venomous digestive juices, then vomits it forth before the leaders of the world
War = . The indefeasible demonstration in support of the premise that we aren't good enough to qualify as fallen angels and aren't smart enough to qualify as risen apes.
---o0o---
When curative yields to palliative…
If that sounds as though I have something new and different -- or even old and familiar -- to say about the debacle that is Iraq, I'm sorry. I don't.
This is a matter of much smaller interest, having to do, as it does, with only me and a handful or so of earth's other inhabitants.
There comes a point in the treatment of cancer when what can be done, has been done -- when treatment assumes the character of palliative rather than curative. No, it doesn't mean the Grim Reaper is tap, tap, tapping at the door, or even that he's found his way into my neighborhood yet. But it's obvious that if the invitation has not yet been penned or mailed, whoever is in charge of such things is scanning the calendar for a convenient date.
While no doctor has yet fulfilled his or her sworn promise to let me know as soon as he or she does that my days are reduced to a countable number, there is a subtle shift in how issues of treatment are addressed. That is, I'm being given choices. Oncology is not ordinarily a particularly democratic field. When I am consulted on the limits of indignity I am willing to undergo for additional lifespan, I'd say that absent a deus ex machina of a truly extraordinary nature, there is a general feeling that plans for that final dinner party are in the works.
I am strangely unmoved by the prospect. I have always taken the position that I have no problem with death, only with discomfort. Thus far, I've escaped the first and largely been spared the second. About the first, I confess to an abiding curiosity. About the second, I confess I have not only no curiosity but an absolute aversion.
I would not bargain for a single additional breath if it had to be drawn in pain -- the opportunity for disgracing myself by whining or griping (and surviving to live with the recollection of it) is entirely too present to my mind. Dying, on the other hand, seems to be a skill with which we are all blessed from birth. It invites forgiveness for whining as survival does not.
Though people speak (inaccurately, I think) of "taking a long time to die", I think in fact it is almost instantaneous -- one moment, one is "alive". The next moment, one is not. One can probably squeeze a fair amount of self-embarrassing behavior into the final "alive" moments, but I suspect that's only among people who really don't consider themselves ready to go. I'm not eager, but I cannot say I am not ready -- and there's that curiosity itching to be satisfied. And, too, if I do something incredibly embarrassing for myself, I won't be around to answer for it. (It's a better break than I had while I was drinking heavily!)
For now, having exhausted the benefits of Carboplatinum-Taxol and Gemzar, I continue chemotherapy of Doxil -- which looks like melted raspberry gelatin in the infusion bag and seems to have about that consistency as it gurgles into my veins. I have had only one session of it thus far and face another this Thursday, 11/30/06. However, it appears that some of the "markers" used to indicate effectiveness are indicating that Doxil is not going to be my miracle drug. I don't complain of that. It leaves me a little queasy, but still not outright nauseated. It leaves me very tired, but, then, that could also be cumulative years catching up with me. If it isn't being totally effective, at least it is not being unbearably unpleasant.
More disturbing is that it looks as though thoracocentesis (*see below) is returning to my life. After nearly a dozen such procedures on my right lung some months ago, the fluid there stabilized at a level the specialist felt could be safely left alone. A couple of the last procedures had led to plummeting blood pressure and unconsciousness -- and there is always the fear of collapsed lung -- so he decided to leave well enough alone. Fortunately, the loculated fluid troubled me very little, and I almost unconsciously adapted my activity level to my diminished lung capacity. I could still walk long distances, do my yard work, clean my house, and talk a mile a minute non-stop. Now, alas, I've learned that my left lung has begun to fill up with fluid -- a liter in a couple of days. I can move only a few steps without wheezing like the old gray mare, my energy level is hugely diminished, and -- far, far worst of all -- it's very hard for me to keep up non-stop conversation!!! (My friends are too polite to mention what a blessing they consider this.)
* For those of you not familiar with it, thoracocentesis is a process by which a hole is put into one's back and a garden hose fed through to permit pumping out accumulated fluid. Okay, okay -- so the doctors always insist it isn't a garden hose. On the other hand, I'm the one to whom it's happening. Feels like a garden hose to me! The process is uncomfortable (and sometimes even painful), but primarily it is stressful. One is wide awake, leaning forward on folded arms on a table top, while all manner of Torquemadic activities are perpetrated upon one's person outside one's range of vision. One is assailed by coughing fits. One is asked repeatedly, "Are you doing okay? Are you all right?", and one's responses are repeatedly ignored. Passing out, on the other hand, did seem to arrest the attention of all caretakers. I'm not sure at the end I wasn't doing it on purpose -- though it's hard to believe I can control my blood pressure that easily.
So when my lovely internist told me the other day that she wanted to schedule thoracocentesis, I again suggested that I simply be left to drown quietly in my own seepages. She demurred, but she has kindly involved the Interventional Radiation crew, which advises they can anesthetize me for the procedure. For me, this is the equivalent of being out of the room while it is performed. I'll settle for that. Let Torquemada and his crew do their worst, so long as I spend the time in the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
What I do know from past experience with the right lung, is that such fluid buildups are recurrent -- and that eventually they break down into pockets which are inaccessible to withdrawal procedures. With the right lung I was fortunate -- after seven or eight procedures, there really wasn't much fluid left to "pocket" itself, and I've been living reasonably comfortably with what remained. But with the left lung joining in, I am less sanguine. I no longer have a spare, if you see what I mean.
I'm pretty certain Grim Reaper has time to have his robes cleaned and darned, to have them altered if his feasting in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Darfur has caused him to outgrow them, to tend to a considerable amount of other business before he knocks at my door. While I can't claim I'll be wildly enthusiastic to greet him, I've had houseguests over the years I didn't like much better -- and some of them tended to stay much longer than I anticipate his visit to be. Actually, I've had fringe family members I was more reluctant to see.
Miss Betsy Trotwood, for those of you who know of her, will be a bit of an heiress and will be going to live with the inimitable Dog Doc who first gave her to me -- or with someone he feels is suitable to be charged with her care. Dog Doc has cared for all my past and present pets since I moved to Oakland almost twenty years ago, making house calls to accommodate my status as a non-driver. I think he's on St. Francis' personal elite patrol.
So if you don't see my "mousetracks" among the comments of your various blogs (all of which I enjoy enormously), please know it is not diminished enthusiasm for your enlightening and amusing "snark", but diminished breathing capacity! I hope after the thoracocentesis and chemo, I'll be able to huff and puff as vigorously as in the past, at least in the short term.
By the way, I am probably, at this moment, the only person in the United States who can claim she is re-reading Max Beerbohm's wonderful Oxford novel Zuleika Dobson. (My friends assure me I'm probably the only person in the United States who can claim to have read it once, let alone to be reading it again!) I have the illustrated edition with Beerbohm's own watercolors and sketches and find it as much a pointless delight as ever. I plan to indulge myself in quite a few pointless delights. I urge you all to do the same.
And I'll let you know how "remote" thoracocentesis works out.
(Comment this)
Keep up the good fight, we need you more than you can ever know.
With great affection (and a few sobs)
Tengrain (Comment this)
Dammit woman, I can't afford to lose you. After all, you're probably fifty percent of my readership!
Seriously, your attitude towards a mortality that we all - as the years go evermore swiftly by - begin to regard with added respect and trepidation, is a lesson in dignity. Reading of your feelings and experiences I found myself thinking, this is how I hope I will react when my time inevitably comes around. I don't pray to any god (as you know) but I can still wish, and from my heart I fervently wish Miss Betsy will not need to find a new home for a very, very long time. (Comment this)
We still need you at the battlements, Xristim, along with your scathing curses! I'm sure you were partly responsible for the fantastic Democratic turnout and the stunning Republican losses.
May we all have the humor and dignity you have displayed here when we get to fight our own final battles.
Big hugs to you. (Comment this)
I am beautifully comfortable with my increased lung power -- I even managed to sweep up leaves today without falling over sideways into the shrubbery! It's odd, but I find I afflicted with fatigue and weakness ONLY when there is some particular household chore waiting to be done that I truly am not enthusiastic about doing! For example, when I see dust settling on my Levelors, I grow faint! LOL! An excuse this good for idleness is dangerous in my hands.
(Comment this)
Besides, I have no immediate plans for going toes up. Just now, I feel terrific. I mean, I can breathe! I'll never take that for granted again!
(Comment this)
I wish I could take some credit for the Democratic victory. If my peculiar blend of prayer and pagan incantation helped, I'd be mightily pleased! Mostly though, I think I just succeeded in being a pain-in-the-a** to elected officials everywhere with my blizzards of letters! And as long as there's a GOPer in office or a Bush appointee on the bench or heading an agency, I plan to keep that up. What's the point of being a pathetic l'il ol' lady if I can't use it to beat people roundly about the head and shoulders without too much fear of retribution? LOL!
Thanks for your kind thoughts, m'dear...and the hugs. I have shared the latter with Miss Betsy. (Comment this)
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