Not So Magnificent

I am hereby revoking seven's status as a lucky number. Seven is not lucky. Seven is not magnificent. Seven is deadly sins, and layers of hell. Seven, quite frankly, sucks. 

First seven shows up pretending to be eight, and then it turns out to be an absolutely horrible chemotherapy experience. Between the completion of Wednesday's infusion and Sunday afternoon (call it ninety-six hours), I figure I must have slept for somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty of those hours. My colleague calls it sleeping like a baby: you're awake for an hour or two, then take a six hour nap; wake up for another hour or so, and go back to sleep for another five or six hours; and the cycle just continues -- for four freakin' days. 

Maybe it's just me, but I find it hard to call lying in bed for days on end "living." 

And it doesn't help things that those two hour bits where I'm actually awake and conscious are basically pretty terrible. The weather's gotten cold enough that just standing outside for a minute or two is enough to set off the neuropathy, even wearing gloves. Walking home from the clinic I was only outside for thirty seconds or so before the pins and needles started, and by the time I made it the four blocks home my fingers were pretty much in agony. Even now, just trying to get in my house is painful in that to get the keys out of my pocket I've got to take off a glove, and by the time I unlock the door and turn the cold door knob, my fingers are screaming.* 

Then there's the being repulsed by food; the not being able to tolerate anything colder than the (very warm) side of room temperature; the gastrointestinal distress that would make Montezuma cringe; and my new favorite, chemo-acne. Who knew that when push comes to shove, if it can't figure anything else out, your body will try to push the toxins through your skin? Good times...

Is it any wonder that I'm giving serious consideration to calling this whole thing off? I saw my neighbor this weekend and learned that he's now going to be on chemo for the rest of his days. I can't even begin to imagine, and it sure isn't anything I plan to sign up for. 

But for now, I'll wait for cold beverage tolerance to return**, review my open enrollment options to see if there's anything that might provide more options than Group Health's never ending chemotherapy, and gear up for cycle eight. 

I can taste the metal already -- or maybe that's just the leftovers from Cycle 7. Who knows anymore?


* We're not even officially into winter yet, and I can already tell you that I won't be finding it much of a wonderland. One of the seven -- see! -- layers of hell maybe, but not a wonder. 

** I need a beer.