This marks the first month, and cycle, of my chemotherapy. Next week I'll do this at Rose and get blood tests to see, presumably, my progress. As such I can only imagine next week will be stressful.
Therapy was interesting yesterday. My therapist made the comment that while there are certainly a lot of issues here to deal with related to having cancer, that the umbrella problem is a lack of control. A lack of control over my health, losing who I was to this disease, over the guilt I feel for those around me having to deal with it, over how those close to me are dealing with me, etc. I hadn't really thought of it that way, specifically, so I thought it was a cool way of framing it, anyhow.
Sitting here composing this on my iPhone waiting for a doctor to approve my CBC levels to give me the Velcade shot. The numbers are all fine, they just have to be approved officially. Busy room today, and the relative silence is being broken up by a patient throwing up in the corner and other fun reminders of where I am, what I have, and how much I wish neither were my reality.
Insurance is fucking around with refilling my Cytoxin prescription (one of the three-drug regimen drugs in my chemotherapy). King Soopers called to let me know the insurance company won't pay for refills, so I'm now waiting for the oncologist to let me know if that's their problem or mine. It's only $140 a month if not, I think, so nothing too troubling, but annoying.
Debating going to church lately. Not that I suddenly believe, but the hits just keep coming this year and it's hard not to feel like there's a divine entity or voodoo curse with a strong interest in fucking my family in all kinds of fun ways that apparently I owe some sort of apology for. Let's review:
- I was diagnosed with a rare cancer,
- Amy's sister had a horrific accident,
- We had to put the dogs down, both of them,
- Amy's parents' dog Chloe died,
- I have a leak in the dining room, presumably from the roof,
- Amy's best friend in the neighborhood is moving,
- My father has to go see a glaucoma specialist,
- My mother is seriously fucking with my wife's mental health,
- And oh yeah, I was diagnosed with CANCER. Just in case I hadn't mentioned that recently.
I was bemoaning this a bit last night to Amy when she cautioned me that things could definitely get worse. Well yeah, but fuck, not by much you know? Where's the fucking good swing of the pendulum? And why do I feel like the anti-Job?