174 A Week of Clarity

I’m pulling the dead plants from the yard, trimming the ivy. The hoses are put away, another load ventured to the dump. We are in motion. All of us are being swept along with the tide.

Maybe it’s the chicken that Kwami makes and I pop into my chicken soup.  Maybe it’s all of the applesauce of the past few days.  This last week (much to the opposite of the beginning fog of the last chemo cycle) has been a space of rapid fire ideas, motion, and clarity.  It is echoed by many of the writings that pop into my inbox.  There is transformation in the air, in the ethers.

I have bigger images of what the world can do, yet, there are tweaks and goals for me on the smallest of scales.  Sort the drawers.  Take a class (or three, I think I have three).  Remember food, and journaling, and the blog, and the people around me, and…

It’s movement.  It is like the chemotherapy, the partner to my body, moving through it and making changes.  I can tune in and feel it.  It’s like swirling, tiny bubbles, moving around in specific spaces.  Nausea is how it might be defined by someone who is unable to separate from the experience, but it isn’t that.  It is very intentional, very interactive.

Maybe people can resonate with the nausea on the political front.  The tension, upset, and uncertainty.  Moving us… forward?  Hopefully forward.

I’m pulling the dead plants from the yard, trimming the ivy.  The hoses are put away, another load ventured to the dump.  We are in motion.  All of us are being swept along with the tide.

162. Cycle 4, Chemotherapy

And the world counts down, the little things, Halloween, Elections. Quantity and quality. The balancing act.

It may be a bit strange to address this as Cycle 4.  Chemotherapy abruptly ended five months ago with an emergency colonoscopy.  The pause was exceptional.  A CT scan midway showed nothing, no masses and no activity.  The body was given time to heal.  But we are in a remarkable balancing act.

Dr. Wilfong kindly shares this often.  Quantity and quality of life.  The balancing act.  Face it people, we are ALL in this balancing act.  I am blessed to be reminded!  

The chemotherapy is different this time.  There is much less in the mixture.  My body is not battling the masses or the colon issues anymore.  Yet, there are reactions to the chemotherapy drugs.  

I’m looking at them closely, because I realize I could use the classic words to describe the side effects, but it is in the details that we find the Truth.

Chemo and brain fog

First, there is “brain fog”.  It took me about 20 seconds pause to think up the words “side effects” above.  I have to stop and google search simple terms.  Thoughts fly away quickly, and if I don’t capture the important ones on a post it, they might be lost for a day or forever.  “Cancel the dentist appointment,” lost for a day.  “Name of the acupuncturist,” drifted in space for an hour. The lost forever examples are untypable.


But I think I could decipher brain fog spiritually.  Part of me has stepped aside.  The soul maybe?  It is busy elsewhere.  The thoughts of humanity are not so important.  It’s like brain life is happening as a secondary function.

This is the morning of the third day of the cycle. 

Chemo and nausea

Another ramification of the process is “nausea.”  I don’t vomit.  World, hear me once again, I do not yawn in technicolor.  It is not my thing and it never will be.  Period.  (Unless it is the will of the Divine that I might need another lesson in acceptance, to be determined at a later date.)

So nausea is a mild eye headache, probably due to the fact that my soul is over there instead of in here.  Disorienting!  Slightly annoying.

Nausea is also weird movement and gurgling and strangeness down in the abdomen.  It is activity more than illness.  I can stop and watch it, feel the motion, the details of the actions of my body in combination with the assistance of the chemotherapy drugs.  

They are creating a harmony, cells in cooperation.  It isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t awful either.  Distraction, sleep, anti nausea pills, and it’s a whole lot of complaining about true “mild discomfort” (not to be confused with the medical definition of mild discomfort, which is normally a journey to hell and back).

Cosmic rain

When I sit still, I think about the soft warm rain, pouring through me and over me, pouring through you and over you, washing out the impurities, bringing us all to our highest good.  That thought stays with me.  As the chemo pump is making its little noises beside me, that thought does not slip away.  (The pump travels with me for 46 hours after the main infusion, continuing the therapy after the initial doctor visit).

Chemo and sleep disruption

And last on the major side effects list is sleep disruption.  That means that I am typing in the earliest morning hours and paying close attention to all of these things, and seeing the bright side, the foggy side, the meditative side of this process. 

Right this moment, the neuropathy in my fingers is so mild.  It is less than before the treatment.  (I am thoughtless here.)  I called to book an acupuncture visit. One reason?  I am expressing myself, so the energy is able to travel through my body and outward, so it is not being trapped in the fingertips, another.  Hmm.  Weird.

Today, we head back to the infusion center at Bellevue Kaiser.  They will pull the connection out of the port, and the fanny pack and plastic cords will wait, relaxing for eleven days, waiting for Cycle 5.  

And the world counts down, the little things, Halloween, Elections.  Quantity and quality. The balancing act.