Things are so-so

Jim's doing okay this week. He had chemo Monday and the pump came out today. Tomorrow he goes in for the injection that increases his white blood cell count.

The good news about this week is that Joan (the chemo nurse) told him that the rash is always worst the first time, and then your body adjusts. Jim was worried that because the rash wasn't as bad the second time that the chemo wasn't working as it should. Turns out it is. Thank heavens Joan told him that.

We got last week's scan results back, and Dr. Siddique said that things are "grossly stable". Okay. Well, that's about what we were expecting.

The bad news is that Jim is in some pretty intense pain in his abdomen, and we're not sure why. They can't see anything on the scan. The pain gets so bad that sometimes he has to stop moving, and he spends a lot of time resting just to avoid the pain. He's rating the pain between a 6 and 7, which is not good. They've given him the go-ahead to use painkillers for his abdominal pain, so that seems to be helping a little bit.

Jim is really run-down right now. This chemo makes him so tired he can barely move. And he's pretty depressed. The problem is that there isn't any real end in sight. It would be one thing if they said "6 months and you're done", but we're meeting with people at the Vince who have been receiving treatments for years. Jim has been seeing a counselor that specializes in cancer, and I think that's been very good for him. It's hard to win a race when the finish line keeps getting pushed forward. And as far as friends and family go, it's pretty tough to cheer someone on, knowing that the finish line just moved again. It's tough to find encouraging words when I'm bewildered myself. When is this going to end?

I think the worst part is watching Jim hobble. He's literally hobbling at times. He can't feel his feet because the neuropathy is so bad right now, and he's bent over because of his stomach pain. Then his back hurts because he's bent over. This is not the super-strong, flannel-wearing, make-something-in-the-basement Jim that I'm used to. I want my Jim back. I want to see that lovely shine in his eyes when he knows he's saying something funny. I want him to have carefree days when he's not crippled by chemo drugs. And I want him to be able to enjoy this summer - to sit out in the sun, walk to the park with the kids, fire up the grill, and mow the lawn in typical Jim fashion.

I know it will happen. I just wish chemo drugs came with a big expiration date stamped on them: {Guaranteed to present No Evidence of Disease by 6/30/07}. That would help us make it to the finish line a lot faster.