If This Is Anxiety, I'll Stick With Depression, 'kay? (Post #35)
Oh, man. 😖 If you have ever suffered from anxiety, I have a new respect for you. I mean, you could probably run an Ironman on sheer willpower alone! I had no idea that Docetaxel can mess with your emotions/psyche. I've been very open about my experience with depression, a battle dating back to 2005 that is usually (and I mean 99% of the time) controlled with meds. Oh, I may get a dark day or period of time, but from experience, I know the "sun will shine again." So I thought it was just SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder - yes, this is a real thing, don't make me go all psychologisty on you!) but after discussing it with the nurse and oncologist, Dr. Zhu, last week, apparently, it's more complicated than that. 🤷♀️
But first some good news: I have impressed both the Cross Cancer nurse and Dr. Zhu with my spectacular symptom control. This is due in part to my great medical team at the Cross, but I would say even more so the result of my crack team at home. Between my husband's tenacious Googling, ("There has to be a fix!") Marigan's excellent nursing, ("Have you taken your 7:00 meds?") and the fantastic care of my pharmacist Theo, ("I'll bring those home with me tonight!") I am apparently much better at symptom control than the average cancer patient. I know it's more than that; I know that prayer is providing that extra something that's keeping me going. Dr. Zhu was also very impressed that I am still playing piano and have no difficulty managing Ziploc bags. Usually, by this point, neuropathy has set in to both hands and feet, affecting dexterity. I should have shown him my lace knitting project!
However, do not confuse this with thinking that all is well. Hubby and I were recently discussing how the bar for "doing okay" has been progressively lowered to the point that you become grateful for the littlest things, especially in the first 10 days post-infusion. ("Another 24 hours without vomiting - YES!" 🙌) As I type this, I am eyeing some mandarins, but know that unless I chew them into a puree (think baby food) they will cause me great pain when going down my throat, and the citric acid won't feel all that good either. (Oral mucositis is a common chemo side effect. It's basically when the tissues in your mouth and throat get super sensitive and make swallowing anything non-liquid rather painful.) My diet these days consists of very, very well-chewed normal food, pudding, and Cream of Wheat! (I recently vomited after consuming Jell-O, so that is now officially off the menu. 🤢)
So, having cancer sucks. We all know this. Being a cancer patient is never a good time and comes with some serious baggage. (No worries, I have a therapist for that!) However, I was managing rather well...until I wasn't. I had a couple bad days during Round 4 but didn't think too much about it. Then this last week I found myself feeling the same unwanted emotions. So I did a little research...😑 Surprise!
Patients in the taxane (Docetaxel) group also had significantly worse emotional distress and mental quality of life throughout adjuvant treatment.*
(It's almost as if poisoning yourself every 3 weeks does bad things to your mental health. Weird that. Yeah, not weird at all...😖)
Not unexpectedly, as most of the other chemo side effects are cumulative, so are the psychological ones. When I mentioned having had a few bad days, days when I thought I was losing my mind, and couldn't seem to shake periods of anxiety, usually in the evening, both the nurse and the oncologist nodded, as though it was to be expected. So far my worst day was in Round 4, but I acknowledge that I still have one more infusion to go and this Round wasn't exactly a cakewalk either, I think I just got smarter!
So after a particularly difficult evening, I realized that I was concentrating on the wrong things. I was all about symptom control. And yes, symptom control is a huge part of managing cancer care, but for me, it goes beyond the physical: I can't just rely on medication to "ease my suffering," that's God's job. And wow, He does pretty terrific work. It never fails to amaze me how I get messages on the days I need them most. Ditto for meals. And no, this is not some biased retrospective study with skewed results, this is just me, being honest. So yes, I take my medications as required, adding and making adjustments as needed, but I also pray. I pray for His presence, as nothing is as comforting; nope, not even morphine. 😊 When I think back to my time in the ICU, where I felt as though I was being lifted like an infant swaddled in a cozy blanket in the arms of Jesus, I tear up, (Of course...you didn't expect anything less, did you?) but I also think of the hymn "Nearer, Still Nearer." It's an oldie goldie with seriously dated language, but still a classic that holds true for today:
It came to mind this past week, along with numerous Bible verses I didn't realize I knew and blessed me beyond explanation. This blog journey is about me beating cancer, absolutely, but it's also turned into "Finishing School for Heather." No, not a "finishing my life on Earth" kinda' thing, (I plan to be around long enough to irritate my great-grandkids!) but a refining of my faith. When silver is refined it reflects the face of the master refiner, like in the story below.
The following excerpt from As Silver Refined** was once read in a sermon I heard years ago. (I don't think I had kids yet, so 25 years ago+?) I was so touched by the lesson that I never forgot it. My prayer has always been that my life reflects my Master, Jesus; so this blog really isn't about me at all. I hope you see Jesus in these blog posts.
Come, let me take you back to a Judean village in ancient days. Inside a small, walled courtyard under a blue and blazing sky, there stands a refiner of metals. In his hands, gnarled with age, he is rolling and fingering a lump of ore. He watches the sun play on the streaks and veins of lead and other minerals running through this bit of rock chiseled from the bowels of the earth.
His experienced eye knows that, intermingled within this ore, there is silver.
He lays the ore on his worktable then builds his fire with care and the wisdom of years. Soon the flames are rising in the pit situated against the courtyard’s stone wall.
At the work table, he picks up his hammer and begins crushing the lump into smaller pieces.
He pauses occasionally to stare at the fire, as if in study. From time to time he places more fuel upon the already-blazing coals and works his bellows until the flames are in a frenzy.
When the fire is right, he gathers the hammered bits of ore from the place of their crushing and lays them in a small, sturdy container of tempered pottery—his crucible.
He places the crucible in the fire and sits down beside it. A long day is before him, and this is where he will stay for as long as the metal is subject to the flames. Silver is too precious to be forsaken in the furnace, too valuable to be ruined through inattention.
Carefully he watches the fire. It must be maintained at exactly the right temperature for the right duration of time to accomplish its purpose. Slowly the ore softens. The silver, with its greater density and lower melting point, liquefies first, hissing and bubbling as oxygen is released. The still-solid impurities rise to the top of the molten metal. This is the dross, and the refiner skims it off.
Now he adds bits of charcoal inside the crucible. He knows this will enhance the sheen of the silver. The carbon of the charcoal will keep the refined metal from reabsorbing oxygen from the air, which would only dull its finish.
He tends the fire, adds more fuel, and applies more air from the bellows. Amid the relentless heat surrounding the crucible, more dull impurities, newly revealed, rise to the surface of the mixture.
Again the refiner carefully skims away the murky, smudgy metal floating at the top of the crucible. Gazing down upon the molten surface, the refiner sees at best but a dim reflection of himself.
The refiner works and watches and waits. The heat and its effect continue. More impurities rise to the surface, and again he skims them off.
He never leaves the crucible unattended, never steps away from the fire he has formed to do its work. The finished product he cherishes demands this process. Only his guided and guarded refinement will yield the promised and precious metal.
And he is not yet satisfied.
He lets the fire cool. Eventually, he sets the crucible aside.
Then once again he builds up the fire, and the process begins all over. This time the skilled refiner makes the fire hotter. Within the crucible, new impurities are released, brought to the surface, exposed for what they are, then skimmed off.
Finally, his leathery face breaks into a smile, for now as he gazes into the liquid silver his reflection is apparent—not yet sharp, but more distinct than before.
More hours pass as he perseveres in his anxious and delicate work. And then . . . once more he bends over the crucible, and this time he catches his breath. There it is! In the silver, he sees what he has waited for so patiently: a clear image of himself, distinct and sharp.
Delight banishes his frown. His task is done. The impurities are gone.
The silver is refined.
He has his treasure.
*https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2746480/
**https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/5178/as-silver-refined-by-kay-arthur/9781400073481/excerpt
Comments
Post a Comment