Week 7, Day 1

Which is quicker -- go for the initial blood draw in the Chemotherapy Department at Roswell Park Cancer Institute, where I have to check in anyway, or check in there and then go get it done in Phlebotomy Department, which allegedly adds an extra step to the handling process? 

This week the chemo people seem ready and willing, so why not? Turns out there's still a two-hour wait for the results. No time differential at all.

When the pager calls me back to the chemo department, what takes a lot more time is finding a vein for the IV. The first chemo nurse tries two of them in my right hand and arm, but neither gives the blood-red signal of success. Two tries and out, she says. She won't do a third. I appreciate that.

She summons another nurse, who tries a third vein. Still no luck. They assess my left hand, which got the last two IVs, and declare the veins too hard, after-effects of the harshness of the chemo drug, Gemcitabine. Third and fourth nurses step in, look again at my right hand, and talk about calling still another nurse, George, who never fails to find a vein. But before they do, they spot a prospect between my thumb and index finger. It works. 

Given the tender location, I brace for the worst with the Gemcitabine, which hurt a lot last week, but the first nurse buffers it with an immediate warm blanket and a simultaneous infusion of saline solution, which dilutes some of the nastiness. This, it turns out, has always been an option. It's a good one, the least painful of the Gemcitabine infusions so far. And now a week off. 

Week 6, Days 6 & 7

This must be the upswing. How else could I finally make it back to the office on Tuesday, at least in a limited and assisted way? Friend Broady takes me downtown mid-afternoon (just my third venture outdoors since Friday the 13th). Monica gets me back mid-evening. 
And how else could I hang in there longer than expected, fueled by only one nap for the day? Twelve days worth of backlogged e-mail, two Reporter's Notebook columns to assemble, I spend five hours digging myself out of a hole.
Complicating excavations is the balky Buffalo News computer system. My ancient Windows XP machine has barely gotten humming when it locks up and needs a reboot. And then it locks up again and needs another reboot. Meanwhile, the editors are waiting for Wednesday's column.
Then, later, with Monica idling at the snowy Scott Street curb downstairs, it locks up again when I try to send Friday's column to the editors. Second-richest man in America, our beloved owner, Warren Buffett, and he can't give us decent tools to work with. I seethe all the way home.
Monday, I couldn't have done all that. That's a two-nap day, enhanced with my sleep apnea machine. The sinus infection obliged me to abandon it recently because I couldn't breathe, but now, with sinuses improved (but not cured), I give it another try and immediately see the difference. Not in duration of sleep, but in depth. The dreams! One involves flaming architectural elements of Victorian houses flying wildly through the air. I wonder if my subconscious has a special effects budget big enough to keep doing this.

Week 6, Days 4 & 5

Do I want to come to the cheese shop to pick something for Saturday evening's party? The enduring snow and cold make that an easy decision. So does the interior climate -- foggy and listless.

No option like that for the party itself -- a champagne tasting led by our friend Janine, who's a wine distributor's rep and does this sort of thing for a living. People want to see you, Monica says. And if you feel you want to leave after an hour, that's OK. 

Parked in a chair next to our hosts' living room fireplace, I find a comfort zone that's good for a bit more than two hours, but I'm nowhere near as sparkling as the wine samples.  Back home, first thing I do is call the city desk at The News. They won't be seeing me Sunday night. The party was the test. 

Still foggy and listless in the morning, I nevertheless think I can assemble something for a Reporter's Notebook column on Monday, which otherwise probably wouldn't appear. It takes the better part of three hours at the computer, and by t hen I'm falling asleep in my chair. 

After a nap and lunch and a second nap, some neglected little personal chores get tackled, including an on-line order of some newly-released CDs (Father John Misty, Steve Earle, Gretchen Peters), since they'll show up at the front door before I'm likely to get over to Record Theatre. Stalled repeatedly at the final step in the check-out process, I decide to try my luck with a living human being. I call Waterloo Records in Austin directly (they're open late) and bingo!

Is the rest of the evening spent watching the Academy Awards? No more so than if I had been at work, which is where I usually spend Oscar Night and the telecast is background noise. Monica tapes it on the DVD so she can skip the commercials and we get to watch another diabolical installment of "House of Cards." For those who know the series, suffice it to say we're now two episodes into the second season. Diabolical, indeed.

Week 6, Days 2 and 3

Well, you've reached the halfway point, more than one well-wisher observes Thursday and Friday. Nine treatments in all, right? Just four more to go. A smiling parabolic arc. 

But lately it occurs to me that this chemo trip may look more like the balance sheet of a Silicon Valley start-up in the Dot.Com bust. A month ago, I joked that the treatments would leave me half-dead, and then they'd take the half that was still alive and resurrect me. What if this is only quarter-dead? 

But don't get me wrong. I'm rooting for the parabola. I could use the upswing. Thursday and Friday I need two retreats, not just one, for an afternoon nap (sharing the blanket with Boris the cat, who's suddenly discovered it). Work Thursday? Out of the question. Now I'm beginning to wonder about my plan to get back to the office Sunday.

Not that there are too many physical complaints, aside from the fatigue. The sinuses sometimes still want to be streaming, but with saline spray, a vaporizer running near the bed and a last-resort decongestant, there's a limit on them. 

The left hand, Wednesday's infusion hand, is still a little swollen and sore, but this time around the drug hasn't produced a rash anywhere. Maybe just a lurking hint of nausea. Two nights in a row, my 2 a.m. wake-up arrives with a little unease in my stomach, enough to prompt a walk downstairs to take a preventive Compazine. 

Nevertheless, at this low, low point on the parabola, any pursuit or pleasure beyond basic personal care seems like a victory.

Assembling a Saturday column of duplicate bridge notes and scores and e-mailing it to the features editor? Imperfect, but done. There's hope for those post-surgery weeks in May and June. 

More episodes of "House of Cards"? I want more than one at a sitting, but Monica resists. Season One, Episode 11, on Thursday night gives both of us bad dreams.

Unexpected delight? Chicken pho from the still-new Saigon Cafe a few blocks away at Elmwood and Utica. Monica brings some home Friday evening and it's so tasty I propose laying a pipeline directly to the restaurant. 

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.

Week 5, Day 6

No ... energy ... whatsoever ... Monday. 

An earlier-than-usual nap and temperature reports above zero make me think I might be able to rally mid-afternoon and go to the office, but no can do. Can't manage much more than a shower and getting dressed. And undressed. And back to bed. Achy too. Tylenol helps. Up again for some dinner and another episode of "House of Cards," tuck in by 11 p.m.

Still wiped out now on this bright beautiful frigid Tuesday morning, which prompts Monica to urge me to call Roswell Park Cancer Institute to see what's up with all this fatigue. The nurse who answers Dr. George's number says this is normal for the Cisplatin drug -- its strongest effects are felt a week after it's been given. She says they'll find out more from my blood test when I come in for the next treatment, which will be just the Gemcitabine, on Wednesday.

Week 5, Day 5

Sunday the weather feels more like a prison than the fatigue does. A lovely shining white prison in the brilliant sun, to be sure, but there's no escaping the feeling of being under house arrest. No way will I defy the minus 20 wind chills to fetch the Sunday paper. No way will I dare to go to the office for the evening shift, either.

Nor will Monica venture out. Her business trip to Tampa canceled by the weather, she takes up her Sunday routine of laundry and making lunches for herself for the upcoming week, with a conference call or two thrown in for good measure. She even gets to take a nap. 

As I awaken from my nap, my Monday bridge partner calls to cancel our date. Fine by me. More energy to devote to a Monday evening trip to the office, frigidity and fatigue permitting.

Sunday evening at home is content and alert, settled down in front of the big TV in the living room for a mini-binge watch of Episodes 7 and 8 of the first season of "House of Cards."

Meanwhile, old side effects keep trying to rear their ugly heads. Sinuses flare for an instant or two. The electronic zinging between my ears reappears now and then. And what are those little pains when I put pressure on my left thumb and my left heel? Well, at least there's no nausea or constipation (for now) and for that I'm grateful.