A bad day

It's been a really shocking day. So glad it's almost over.  All I have to do is to finally finish the freelance story I've been working on for weeks, never being able to quite settle down to it. I stretched it out as long as I could, always having the excuse that I wanted to interview someone still.  I did the interview last week and I should have finished it by Friday. Today is Tuesday night and I am still only half way through. I can't focus and I don't really understand it at all. It's all too technical, my brain doesn't take it in. Not as bad as a year and a half ago, but still clearly chemo brain for sure. 

One thing I don't quite understand is why it's only the technical stuff that is so difficult and not the creative writing. Today I had an insight that might explain it. Maybe it has to do with left and right brain activity. The technical writing requires left brain virtuosity, while creativity resides in the right. So, my thinking is that maybe I have remnants of chemo-brain in the left.  This may just be rationalisation, but I'll mention it to the Professor tomorrow.  

As the day progressed and still nothing got done (on the writing front that is, I clipped the bush, cooked dinner, watched a movie, did some qigong exercises, etc) I got more and more hysterical. Finally I called Angela, my cancer counselor and luckily she had time to listen to all my nonsense.  She reckons I was just as flustered before I had my second year checkup with the surgeon, and this is just the same fear and also the worry about changing medication. Also, regarding the chemo brain, she said it's just part of the normal recovery that focus and clarity comes and goes. Darn, I thought I had overcome that problem already. 

Honestly, I think time is measured differently in cancer recovery from normal. Everything takes so long.  By the time you can say you have recovered, you either die of old age (wishful thinking) or the bloody thing comes back. I think I understand my sister-in-law Susan, who died of breast cancer 22 years ago. About 7 months before she died, when I realised how serious her situation was, I asked if she wanted me to approach my contacts at the National Institutes of Health for some new treatment. I was working at the Voice of America at the time and was a regular reporter working at NIH. She said no, she just wanted to live her life and then go. 

I must say I was shocked and didn't understand her attitude at all. Now I do. Considering how much better our treatment is today, I can imagine that she didn't want to go through the awful ancient chemotherapy again. Oh dear, why am I thinking so negatively?  Well, of course because I don't want to switch to Aramidex. The upside is that I do have a bargaining chip.  I called my endocrinologist and made an appointment to get my adrenal adenoma checked out. He should be able to tell me authoritatively about whether my fears about Aramidex are valid. The appointment is for July, so I bought myself some time. 

OK, Professor.  I got myself together.  Get ready, here I come!

Decisions

It appears old age IS creeping up on me, as well as renewed health. What a combination!

A few days ago, I woke up with my right thumb stuck at a strange, perpendicular angle. When I moved it, it clicked back to vertical. Weird! A colleague assured me it was osteoarthritis and proudly showed me several deformed fingers on his own hands. Then, he told me how to deal with it. God bless him. It actually works!

Yesterday, I went to work  and I felt very strange as weird shaped lines started floating in balletic rhythm in front of my eyes. When I started to shiver, which is usually a sign that my adrenal episode is ending, I was relieved and thought the eye thing will disappear too. I was wrong. It got worse and I freaked all the way to the eye hospital. I can't take it, I cried. First the cancer, now my eyes. Will I ever be healthy again? (I completely forgot about the osteoarthritis!)

Well, the good doctor brought every conceivable lens to check the eye and put enough anaestheic and/or relaxant in it to blur my vision for the rest of the day. 'Floaters' -  he said. No, can't do anything about it. Comes with age. A kind nurse gave me a sheet that said the same thing. 'Live with it' – they advised.

It's a marvelous thing that when something happens to you, and you talk about it, suddenly everyone else seems to have had the same problem. High blood pressure? 'Oh, I take pills for that'....Cancer? 'Oh, I've had that 12 years ago'...Floaters? 'My mother has them'...When you come out of the closet, everyone else seems to have been there, and some.

But, like the ads that promise: 'But wait, there is more...' my problems are not over and the decisions I will have to make next week will be really hard, that is quite clear, and my indecision is profound.  

I am having my 2 year checkup with the Professor. He will want to change my medication from Tamoxifen to Aramidase. I know, because we've talked about this last year. I told him I didn't want to switch to Aramidase, because it acts on the adrenal gland and, thanks very much, I am very familiar with adrenal problems. What I have is enough, I don't wish to have any more. We agreed to disagree and not to talk about it - until next week.

So, just like before the annual checkup with the surgeon, I am now stressing about this coming meeting and all other problems seem pretty minor.  Isn't it amazing? Well, I guess it's just common sense.  There's so much to this recovery, you can only take it one day at a time, and one step at a time. What I find so daunting is that I am not sure I want to have the freedom to choose. What if I am wrong? If the doctor is wrong, I can blame him and feel like a victim. If I make the wrong decision, I only have myself to blame. Decisions, decisions....