The Pot Rack

I mentioned in my last entry that I've offered Jim several superficial incentives for beating the cancer. One being a pot rack. Since we did the addition on our house, Jim's been desperate for a pot rack. He's wanted a pot rack since we lived in Atlanta, but the new kitchen in Atlanta didn't warrant a pot rack either.

Admittedly, this kitchen doesn't have much cabinet space. But aesthetically, the kitchen cannot handle a pot rack. It's a small space. I fear that a pot rack would bring the ceiling down so low that people might feel they have to duck.

The pot rack has been under negotiations since last February. Here's how the negotiations typically go:
Jim: I think we need a pot rack there.
Me: No.

Jim: Why not?
Me: It won't fit.

Jim: I think a pot rack would look nice.
Me: No.

Jim: We need the space.
Me: I don't care.

Jim: I want a pot rack.
Me: No. And it would cover the light.

Jim: I can put in can lights that shine through the pot rack.
Me: No.

Jim: I want a pot rack.
Me: No.

So here's my declaration for all to see - Jim: beat the cancer. The moment we hear "No Evidence of Disease" we can drive down to Milwaukee and buy you a pot rack. You can choose the pot rack of your dreams. You can buy a Cadillac pot rack.

Jim had chemo today. He was there for a long, long time today. Every time he gets chemo, they have to make sure that they have the ability to draw blood from his port. Lo and behold, they couldn't get a blood draw today. Sometimes a "flap" of blood can develop over the port hose that goes into his vein. So they have to administer meds to break up that flap.

Jim was very tired today. He slept through almost the entire chemo session, despite the fact that he was armed with a movie that his friend Stephanie sent him (Wedding Crashers - he hasn't seen it yet). It takes a lot to gear up mentally for chemo. A lot of the patients sleep while receiving chemo. It must take a lot out of them. Often the nurses administer an anti-nausea medication that also acts as a sedative. So the mental exhaustion coupled with an anti-nausea med really does a job on the patients. I guess it can be a good thing, since most of them are there almost all day getting their chemo.

At least I know I'll have my kitchen pot rack-free for another month or so.

Tough Day - Emotionally and Physically

Jim had a tough day today. Our church is starting a series on Parenthood, which sounds positive and exciting (and it is), but when you have cancer, it brings up questions like "will I even be here to parent my kids?". Today was the first time I've seen Jim so upset since his diagnosis. It must be hard for him to look at our kids and wonder whether he's going to be able to watch Rachel learn to swim, or whether he's going to get to see Jake play t-ball. Or anything beyond that.

Logically, we know that Jim is way outside the statistics. They really don't even apply to him. After all, the average age for colon cancer diagnosis is 72. Other people whose prognosis were worse than Jim's have bounced back from Stage 4 cancer.

In every day life, we get so caught up in making plans, making treatment choices, going to chemo, going through surgery, getting blood tests, taking medications, visiting the pharmacy, making organic meals, going to tai chi, updating the blog - these are all really just activities that keep us busy and make us feel like we have a sense of control. We tend to get so busy in the process of things that we forget that what we're going through is a ridiculously stressful situation.

Sure, getting chemo is a step in the right direction. It's the right thing to do. But mentally, it's tough to go and receive chemo when he didn't ask for cancer in the first place. I can see where people would get really bitter in a scenario like this. We didn't ask for this. We were just going through life, minding our own business, when the cancer reared it's ugly head. Now we're left with a "challenge" that we basically have to win. The stakes are just so high that I imagine the pressure could really blow some people out of the water.

I guess our flurry of activity is a coping method. After all, if we just sat around every day to dwell on how high the stakes are, we'd both get depressed and have a hard time putting up a fight. At least this way, we feel like we're doing something. We're contributing to his eventual victory.

Jim had a tough day physically, although early in the morning he mentioned to me that he felt it was the first time he was able to get a full breath of air. His core temperature is fluctuating all over the place. He's freezing cold or sweating profusely. It's almost like he's in detox. This is all normal, according to the doctors. And he's stopped taking the vicodin they gave him for pain relief. He's still got a lot of pain in his back, but he's not really crazy about the vicodin. I think part of the issue physically is that he's dealing with so much emotionally. At least I think that's what's going on today.

Did you know that almost 1/4 of cancer patients start getting sick before they get their chemotherapy? The anticipation of what's coming makes them sick. Although I think he's been improving physically, he knows what's coming tomorrow. Tomorrow. The darn chemo again. Sometimes I feel like begging for a break for him, but at the same time...if he takes a break it could set him back, and that's the last thing we want.

When I'm calm and I can maintain my sense of perspective on the situation, I try and tell him that even though this is horrid, when he's done he can go back to being himself. That's something that is really eating at him today. He hasn't been "normal" Jim since September 13, 2006. 7 months of not being yourself. 7 months where your thoughts alternate between "I have cancer" and "Am I going to beat it?". 7 months of "treatments". In the overall scheme of things, this may be a bump in Jim's road of life. Granted, mentally it will always be a pretty BIG bump, but if he beats the cancer, he can go back to being Normal Jim.

Thus far meditation and prayer have helped me remain calm and maintain my sense of perspective on the situation 99% of the time. The 1% typically happens when I'm not at home - when I'm alone, driving somewhere in my car. I know in my heart that Jim can beat it. I know that Jim knows he can beat it. Heaven knows that I've offered him lots of superficial incentives to beat it, including a trip to Hawaii, a pot rack (future blog entry), a lifetime of foot massages (another future blog entry), and a new planer (woodworking tool). All that on top of the obvious incentive for beating the cancer - life.

I guess even the most collected people are entitled to a moment of panic and doubt when the "C" word comes into their lives. I hate cancer. I hate it. I hate it that my Jim isn't Normal Jim. I hate it that he has to deal with stress like this at such a young age. I hate it that he has to worry about things that he shouldn't have to worry about. Blissful ignorance and a sense of immortality should be something he can have, just like the rest of us.

I'm giving him some time. I know he can beat it. When he does, I'm planning to shake my fist at the cancer and scream "GET AWAY FROM US! YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!" I then plan to do a happy dance in Dr. Haid's office when we hear the words we long to hear most in life: "No evidence of disease."

It's sad how cancer changes your perspective - shouldn't the words we long to hear most in life be "I love you"?