Week 5, Day 7 & Week 6, Day 1

OK, no news is not necessarily good news. Even diary-keeping takes a few horsepower. Tuesday is running on so few cylinders that I’m back to bed before noon and only occasionally ambulatory after that. How will I get to Roswell Park Cancer Institute for Wednesday’s chemo treatment when I can barely make it up and down stairs?

        Then, bedding down for the long haul at 11 p.m., turning up the electric blanket against my perpetual chill and lamenting that I haven’t even had the energy to do some reading, my internal thermostat mysteriously clicks on. Off with the fleece, the sweatshirt, the blanket. I pick up a New Yorker. Two hours later, I’m still radiating heat and reading about Russians who want to overthrow Putin. This is ridiculous. Off with the light.

        At least I have enough corpuscles for the Ash Wednesday ride to Roswell Park. Or do I? By morning, well-being is a no-show. My new goal: Shower before the cleaning ladies need to attack the master bathroom.

        The 17-degree air feels less brutal than I imagined, but when we get to Roswell Park I’m doing the invalid shuffle to the phlebotomy department. Then upstairs to the cafeteria for a two-hour wait till the pager lights up, with some crackers and caffeinated tea, which provides a little lift, but not much.

        The blood tests are pretty much within limits, except for the liver and kidney function readings, which are way high. To be expected from the Cisplatin, the nurses say. Not to worry. Its effects are at their height right now. My first month of ease on the drug was a blessing, not the norm.

        I thank the nurse, Doreen, for her deft touch inserting the IV in the back of my left hand, but unfortunately she can’t do much about today’s chemo drug, the Gemcitabine, other than bring a warm blanket to wrap my arm. It helps, but it still feels like crucifixion. My head rolls.

At least it’s only half an hour of infusion, though my left hand stays sore and useless all evening, even after some sleep. I have to ask Monica to open jars and pill bottles.

My internal thermostat cranks up again after I hit the sack (after roasting Monica by bumping the external thermostat up from 68 to 71 to watch “House of Cards” in the living room). My shirt is soaked in sweat at 1 a.m. Turn off the electric blanket, change shirts. Soaked again at 3, new shirt. And at 5. And 7.

P.S.: I now have a surgery date. A tentative one, at least. Me and my bladder are on the list for May 4.