After the first cocktail...

Well, dears, I decided to keep last week's posting up rather than delete it as initially planned. For now, the blog becomes an ad-hoc journal of the process, and food is still more prominent than I imagined. Nothing to be ashamed of in this, except delaying the visit to the doctor. We're women. We have ovaries. I should be through this by May, so if you prefer, duck out until then (when we'll be back to farmer's markets and seasonal produce and bright dreams for a sustainable food system). No hard feelings. I promise not to be too vivid, and hopefully we'll keep the Drama Queen under control. Be warned: the DQ makes no promises.

On Friday's visit with the surgeon (Dr Dolan, if you ever need to know), the zipper came out, everything stayed put, and we got a copy of the path report. We learned that the big lump was my left ovary (filled with all sorts of anomalies--and those pesky clear cells), and there were smaller non-cancerous fibroids tucked around other parts. The report also confirmed what I thought I heard Dr. D say: that everything, everything outside of the evil O tested negative for clear cells. It was isolated. (I was waking from drug-induced sleep when he told me about the first results on the report and part of me wondered if I was just making it up. Hallucinations can be so annoying.)

We scheduled chemo to begin yesterday. And we talked about what to expect when, and the does and don'ts.

Do eat, drink, stand on the scale and take a temp reading every day.
Do kiss, love, laugh, walk--and for me, write, every day.
Talk to friends.
Nap when you need to.
It's just hair, and it'll grow back.

(But be ready for ... well, let's describe those if/when they pop up.)

Thinking about Day 1 was far worse than its reality. We started with a good dose of Benadryl and Pepcid, then anti-nausea meds, then a 3-hour cycle of Plaxitaxel and another hour of Carboplatin. The Carboplatin ran cold into my arm, but that was really the only discomfort. I ate a burger and a banana, had a cup of coffee, chatted with the other drip people in the room. We came home and cooked.

Last week P's parents sent 50 lbs of frozen venison (sausage, ground meat, steaks) from Kerrville, TX. And over the weekend I made a big vat of vegetable broth (carrots, onions, celery, leeks, garlic, sweet and red potatoes, parsley, peppercorns, salt and bay leaves), and a chai base (coriander, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves) for sipping and comfort--and more importantly for the nutritional values just in case post-cocktail nausea was a problem. (The nurse said it might be; it hasn't been so far.)

Last night P made a venison ragu for himself and I indulged in liquids. They were heartening and filling and, as hoped, comforting, in the same way a good backrub can be. (And, I did have just a bit of his yumminess, too. It was, as is par for the course, good and garlicy with just an edge of spicy heat.)

Sometime in the middle of the night, I began working to visualize those cells, the cocktail isolating the little creeps, and killing them. I admit that clear cells are hard to imagine, all edge and shape--like shadow boxing. (I might have to find an image online to know what my mind's eye needs to find.)

And flowers just arrived from Sue, Leslie, Joyce and Di, one group of my Oregon hearts. Thank you. With love and light pouring in from so many, and blessings that scrape the sky, how can I possibly feel bad?

Here's to it all!