Lodat

Had a moment of panic tonight--the apartment seemed awfully cold as my meditation group was meeting (a group of 2 only tonight, the other regulars being occupied with out of town guests). I checked my digital thermostat, and there was a strange reading: lodat. Nothing happened when I hit the button that changes "program" to "manual." Nothing happened when I hit any button, in fact. Gulp. Given my recent infrastructure hobgoblins, and the temperature outdoors, I thought my furnace was going out. I have an out of town guest myself, from Dallas yet, so she is not acclimated to this weather. Turns out, when I adjusted my glasses and looked at the instructions on the back of the thermostat door, it was telling me "lo bat," for low batteries. I had the requisite double-A's in the house, and the instrux on how to change batteries were crystal clear, so we arrested the dropping temperature at the 67-degree mark, and there was no need to start looking for a hotel that takes cats. The incident showed me, once again, how easy it is for the mind to create problems where none exists. It is now a toasty 71 degrees in here, my cat Sasha is curled up in a comma in her favorite chair, and my friend from Dallas called to say she is heading home with ice cream. All's well that ends well.

My own batteries are beginning to be affected by radiation therapy (today was treatment #13 of 30). I find I get more tired than usual, and that I get tired in a different way. One minute I'm fine, and the next I'm bereft of energy, as though someone had yanked my batteries. It's taking a little longer to recharge, too. A week or two ago a one-hour nap kept me up til after midnight, and sleeping only lightly after that. Today I slept for about 1:20, and I'm pretty sure I'll sleep like a baby the whole night through. That's the only real side effect, other than the rash on my chest and back, for which I saw a dermatologist Tuesday and now have prescription cream and lotion, so it doesn't itch. I'm truly blessed, and I wish you all a warm good night.

Tuesday's Tempo

Long day today, so just a quickie: Tuesday's Tempo includes a feature story on our "Share the Care" system and photo of yours truly on the first day of chemo, in the company of Francine. The story is by Julie Deardorff, health and fitness reporter, whose blog is now linked to this one.

After radiation therapy, my radiation oncologist sent me to a dermatologist to get the rash on my chest and back checked out. The dermatologist took a precautionary biopsy; he suspects the rash is a reaction to chemo and/or radiation, despite the fact that it started before treatment began. He prescribed two creams, which I will try tonight. In the grand scheme of things, the rash is not a big deal, in my view, but I guess they want to take care of it now, before the effects of treatment start to accumulate.

The upshot was that I spent from 8:30 a.m. to approximately 3 at the hospital today, so I was beat when I got home. After a nap I perked up, and I am now going to veg out in front of the tube for an hour or so (resting up for a strawberry sundae). Good night all.

Steady As She Goes

It occurred to me that I've been writing interior monologues lately and not providing many specifics on the state of my health. I feel pretty darn good. I have had 9 radiation treatments out of 30 and one round of chemotherapy out of four. My appetite is rapacious. Acupuncture and pills so far have spared me gastro intestinal side efffects like nausea, esophagitis, etc. My energy is pretty good considering that my body is full of toxins. I'm up at 6:30 and have been managing whatever I need to manage -- driving, shopping, socializing, cooking, cleaning -- as long as I get a short nap in the afternoon. I start to fade around 9 or 10, and am usually in bed by 10:30 -- early for the old me, but certainly a reasonable hour for the contemporary me. As a rule I'm sleeping well, with one exception last week that I think was due to an over-long afternoon nap.

So far the most annoying side effect has been a rash that began on my chest and has now spread to my back. Benadryl did nothing for it, hydrocortizone seemed to help, and last week the acupuncturist gave me calendula cream for it, which I have been using since Thursday. In the great scheme of things this is a very minor issue.

I'm taking magnesium supplements now, since my last blood work showed a deficiency. I remain on folic acid, which protects the good tissue from the effects of the chemo.

I've tried out a few yoga classes at Gilda's and found a couple I like. Today I plan to do some yoga at home, given the weather. I feel I'm not getting quite as much exercise as I should be getting, and I need it to build up stamina. The effects of this treatment are cumulative, and they tell me the radiation starts to take its toll somewhere around treatment#10-#15, so we shall see what the coming week brings. For the time being, steady as she goes.

Kanzeon

Yesterday the Prairie Zen Center in Champaign, IL, began a period of intensive meditation practice, or sesshin (in Japanese). This morning one of the members emailed me: "4:25 AM. Sipping some coffee before I head over for the first morning of sesshin and thinking of you.
Much love....... "

In the Japanese zen tradition, Kanzeon is the Buddha of compassion. She takes the female form and is known in Chinese as Kwan Yin. I have also heard her called White Tara -- I am not sure if this is her Korean name or Tibetan. In the Catholic tradition she is the Blessed Mother. My friend's email was the day's first manifestation of Kanzeon.

To me, the linear accelerator that delivers my radiation therapy is another manifestation of Kanzeon. Years ago in Champaign I learned a Japanese chant to this Buddha of compassion that is very rhythmic and beautiful. I have made it a practice to chant this sutra silently while I'm lying on the accelerator table, as well as many other times during the day. I think of it as the zen Hail Mary. Last weekend when I was meditating over at the Cenacle Retreat House, Taigen Dan Leighton gave me a rough translation of this hymn of praise--in part: "Joyful, pure, eternal. Every morning, Kanzeon. Through the night, Kanzeon."

It took all of human history to create this machine that gathers electrons from the dawn of creation, herds them into shapes that match my tumors, accelerates and hurls them against this cancer that is trying to kill me. Joyful, pure, eternal. Every morning, Kanzeon. Through the night, Kanzeon. Amen.

In Praise of Appetite

New cancer patients get a lot of scary stuff to read. I have a thick file of booklets and pamphlets for patients that includes "Lung Cancer: Treatment Guidelines for Patients," by the American Cancer Society and National Comprehensive Cancer Network; "Chemotherapy and You," 64 pages from the National Cancer Institute; and "Radiation Therapy and You," also from the NCI.

Then there's my white ring binder from the Robert H. Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Center, with details in Section 4 on Cisplatin and Pemetrexed, the two chemotherapy drugs I'm taking, not to mention Section 5: "Managing the Side Effects of Lung Cancer and Its Treatment." Section 5 contains pithy little paragraphs on a litany of possible side effects, including anemia, breathing problems, bruising or bleeding, constipation, depression, fatigue, hair loss, infection, loss of appetite, mouth sores/gum and throat problems, nausea and vomiting, pain, peripheral neuropathy, radiation fibrosis, sexual and resproductive concerns, and skin problems.

They have to tell you this stuff, but it's disconcerting, to say the least. They're careful to say that not all of these problems happen to everybody, but nonetheless--well, nonetheless.

Anyone who knows me knows I love to eat. So those three little words -- loss of appetite -- have been weighing on me ever since I first dipped into "Chemotherapy and You" two and a half weeks ago. Since then, I have tried to make it a practice to pay attention to every bite I put into my mouth.

Yesterday I went to the Cenacle House on Fullerton for a day of intensive meditation with a zen group headed by Taigen Dan Leighton ( http://ancientdragon.org/) . They served a simple lunch of nicely seasoned stir-fried veggies, tofu and rice pilaf. Heavenly! For dessert there was pineapple (along with a ginger bundt cake), and I do believe that pineapple was one of the best I have ever tasted.

Today when I returned from acupuncture -- hungry, thank God -- there was a message on my machine from Nancy G alerting me to the fact that she had left a container of soup in my front hall. Cooking is so intimate -- you literally put your sense of taste into another's mouth. You nourish. I could taste the love in Nancy's soup.

So this is just a reminder. Savor your appetite. Appreciate every morsel.

Sustenance

After a mini-break from blogging, I had thought to devote tonight's entry to a tutorial on women and lung cancer. But you are spared, at least for the time being. Instead, I simply wish to acknowledge what deep delight it was to indulge in my first real bath -- not shower -- since all this began.

This was a day of small and large pleasures. "Restorative yoga" at Gilda's. Doing a couple of loads of laundry, changing the sheets. Luxuriating in the tub. Talking with my dear friend John in Northern Ireland, and Judy H upon her return from Greece (and a 6.5 earthquake). Preparing and consuming three delicious, small meals, with a fourth planned for after my return from tonight's outing: Vitalist Theatre's production of David Hare's "The Bay at Nice." This is a little company associated with my alma mater, Knox College. Their production of "Mother Courage" last year was just terrific.

My friend and classmate Leonard Borden observed early on in our conversations about cancer that his liberal arts education was indispensable to his ability to combat and survive the disease (not to mention our health care system). I have always appreciated my Knox education, but never more than now. The support of Knox classmates and professors remains invaluable. So does the intellectual infrastructure I acquired there. It sustains me, and I am deeply grateful.

Day 3: Another Man in My Bathtub

David P has been a superb captain this week, and is the latest addition to the "Men in My Bathtub" portrait series. Here he is laying down some anti-skid tapes to prevent me from slipping in the tub.

Today he drove me to radiation treatment #3 of 30, followed by acupuncture. Tomorrow radiation moves to the more comfortable hour of 8:30 a.m. If my energy permits, I'll go to yoga at Gilda's Club tomorrow after radiation.

I actually managed to do a little work this afternoon, courtesy of Kym and Giudi, which will help to offset some of the acupuncture and other costs. That's it for tonight. I'm heading in. Love to all.