Today I had
my first rounds of immunizations, as I am “starting over” you could say, with
my immune system and need all my shots again. I thought perhaps it was a
cocktail shot with the few that I was scheduled to receive today. NOPE. Four
separate shots, two in each arm. I hate shots. I hate needles. However, all the
prodding and IVs and bone marrow biopsies and LPs that have happened to me have
at least helped a little in the anxiety department. I know, rationally, that I
will make it through the shot. So I focus on breathing and relaxing, and it
also helps to tell the nurse to push it in slowly. Perhaps the worst part of
shots is that icy cold WHOOSH of the stuff flying in. So, the slower the
better; and if I can’t feel the needle, it’s not as bad. It also helps to have
a heated massage (let’s not get carried away here, it vibrates on two levels)
chair to sit in, which they have at Dana Farber. My arms are a little sore, but
it’s not too bad. Immunizations round 1 complete! #boombaby In other news, my blood/kidney/liver numbers look great, and my chimerism (the percentage of my cells to percentage of donor cells) is holding at 100% donor. #BOOMBABY
Then on the
way home from Boston, in true Friday the thirteenth fashion, my car died. It was the second time this week—and thankfully in
the CVS drive-through (instead of THE ROAD), but still. Really though? After finagling and praying and
scraping with a wire brush, the jumper cables finally worked and I drove
straight to the mechanic and got a new battery. As I sat in the little waiting
room at the auto place, masked and gloved, I spoke with a woman whose tire just
blew up. We chuckled about car troubles. I explained that I had a stem cell
transplant, which is why I was all covered up. It made me realize that I miss
being in the world, meeting new people, and even those silly and seemingly
meaningless brief conversations that let you peep for a second into a
strangers’ life. My nurse told me today that I can go to the grocery store at
low-traffic hours, and that in general, the strict rules are starting to relax:
as long as I still stay away from crowds, dirt, and mildew-y basements. I guess
this calls for 9:30pm ice cream runs. I’m glad to be able to start doing things
again, mentally I’m trudging through. I feel I have lost so much of the
strength I had to get through this. It’s just,…a long time. It’s a lot to ask
of a person. I know it’s what I need to do in order to then live the rest of my
life, but sometimes it doesn’t seem like the end is in sight. I feel alone.
I’ve been searching for tools to help me mentally pull through. I’m trying to
reach out to people. I’m starting a new theatre project with my company, and
our website will be live in a few days. And thankfully, on cue today, a tool—however
small, however silly—arrived in the mail.
After the
mechanic, I came home to find a package that I’ve been waiting for. Meet my
Power Pants, the foil to my Cancer Pants: helping me conquer each dreary day
with their stripes, every lonely long hour with their stretchiness, and my
sadness with their general badassery.
ONE PANT TO
RULE THEM ALL. Cancer ain't got nothin on you…
As my mom said, "must be your donor showing" (the Knight may live in the UK)
As my mom said, "must be your donor showing" (the Knight may live in the UK)
pardon me
while I go shake my Brit-striped booty to some Bey—
