Tuesday is, I hope, my last day of chemo. My head and heart are both quietly singing "Hallelujah," in all its varieties. Last week, my CA125 count measured 11 (lower than expected), but my white counts are still wobbly. If my white count is high enough (over 1500) Tuesday, I'll have four hours of the drips, four days of steroids and anti-nausea meds, then hopefully an all-clear for yoga and other activities. In time, my hair and good humor will return. I hope so. I miss them both. There's a meanness / paranoia / colossal insecurity / distraction that descends over me lately. I hate it. I'm embarassed by it. It's not like me to be so afraid. But I have been. Especially the days immediately following chemo ... and it lingers until the first days of the week following.
Until last week, I thought I was losing my mind, or, from deep inside in my paranoia / insecurity, I thought that P had lost love and moved on to loving job, others, anything instead, but its neither.
In all the talk about losing hair, losing my sense of taste and touch, hot and cold flashes, and possible weight gain, we never spoke of psychosis as a side-effect. During a visit with Dr A last week, I asked. "Oh, yes," she said. "It's called 'steroid psychosis.' Very common. And it's temporary. Don't worry ... " I don't have enough experience with steroids to know that they can make you crazy. Damned drugs: love them, hate them.
Back when we initially spoke about all of this, the doctors told me that tests had proven that three courses at three-week intervals are as good as six at three-week intervals ... easy, I thought. But last week Dr A explained a little more ... the reason it works is that it's the same dosage as six, just three doubles; i.e twice the pre-chemo steroids, twice the chemo dosage, twice the post-treatment steroids. Any of it enough to make a person crazy for a while; all combined feels perfectly horrid.
But at least now we know it's drug-induced and nothing permanent, just an altered "reality." Still, for now, I want P to lock me away for a couple of weeks, hide knives and other sharp objects, take nothing seriously, know in his heart that no matter how bitchy I am, I love him more than I'll even be able to say--or show. It's all a phase. I feel so bad for being such hard work. Really. Enough is enough.
When I suggested he might just want to be gone next week, P said "No travel. Let's cook. I don't want you to be crazy alone."
He's making seafood risotto tonight--shrimp, mussels, and clams. I might need a martini ... I wonder how alcohol and steroids work together?
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Tuesday will come and go, then all the side effects of the drugs will go and then you can focus on reclaiming all that was temporarily lost. Lots of good thoughts and a big hug from me.
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