Day 45 Finally

 

Finally

One of David’s and I’s favorite words ever: Finally. What a grand time to use this magical word. 

Finally, he has seen this through. Radiation ☢️ treatment #30 is in the books. 

He rang that bell in his own way, just like Rickey Henderson did things his own way after stealing 3rd base in 1991 to set the new world record (939 times, my friend) for base stealing. 

Love 3rd base in his hands ❤️

Thanks for not tearing the bell off the wall
So proud over here 👏👏👏

No, David did not rip the bell off the wall and throw it in the dug out. No, his mom was not there to run out on the field and hug him. But instead of that grand fanfare (much deserved if I might say) David had something else. The bell ringing today symbolized a chance at life. A new beginning. But if he could have pulled that bell off the wall, he would have, and taken it all the way back to Gunter to hang up there and ring it every day. Instead, it remains intact so that others will ring it to represent the fight which continues with mankind’s attempt to beat cancer at its game. Some win, some lose. But we all fight like hell, giving it our best shot. And that you did, David! You gave it your all, you laid it all out there on the line, and just as Rickey Henderson did - you're breaking barriers to show others how it’s done. So proud to be here with you for this crazy ride. Let’s go home, my sweets, it’s now time for you to sleep in your own bed and heal. 

The last strand

Over the last week or so, David has noticed that chemo and its sidekick, radiation decided to give him a new hair do. On his head, and even on his face, his hands and arms. Those areas are smooth like a baby’s behind. Yes, he’s definitely putting special oncology lotion on (thanks Kim and Brooke!) and it makes his skin very soft and smooth. There’s patchy areas on his face that no longer have whiskers and/or hair. Bright side? Less to shave. If your stand behind him in line at the grocery store, it happens to look like the barber had unsteady hands while trimming up his neck line in the back. That or made a fancy design back there, all without David even really knowing. But the effects of radiation and chemo are continual, so it’s always a surprise to see what happens next. Oh, we can hardly wait. 

Fly in the ointment 

The fly in the ointment for David is the absence of his smell and taste. He can no longer get a whiff of well, anything. Nor tell the difference between sweet and salty. They warned him about this, but when it happens to you (and also happened to my own dad, as well) food is about as attractive to David as a man in jorts is to women. 

His mouth is about as dry as a Christmas tree in February, and he’s just tired all the time. The tissue carnation which hangs out of his nose sometimes turns into a bouquet (i.e. both nostrils). He has to keep his nose so moist it drips unforgivingly, and he goes through tissues as if they fall from the sky like rain. The used versions are strewn across the apartment like we’re now decorating with them. 

Although half his weight, I can beat him at any eating/drinking game right now, like Smoothie Pong or How Many Crackers Can You Eat in a Minute or maybe even a Hot Dog eating contest and I don’t even eat hot dogs. He’s mad at food right now, and his greatest fear is his taste and smell won’t return. It hurts my heart watching his face when he eats. Whomp whomp. 

Consider yourself warned 

All this fussing about side effects are my way of documenting this journey, and when we look back on it, we'll remember these fun and silly moments we've had. We'll laugh about the tissue bouquets sticking out of his nose or his uncertainty of what is running out his nose at any given time. We'll look back and wonder how we kept up with his pharmacy, and how he drove himself to most all his appts to keep the normalcy feeling going. MDA tells you all these things can happen, there's no surprises here. Yet, it's still a surprise when it happens to you. The mind is a wonderful thing that can push away the idea that something is really going to happen......until it does. Maybe it's like swimming in DeNile. Whatever the case, it's been a progression of growing and learning. We are not one for self pity, and prefer humor instead. David calls it as he sees it, and STILL when asked how he's doing, answers, "I'm doing good, thanks". Ugh. That's all I get it is, I'm good. Still 45 days later. He's good. I'm definitely not complaining, just surprised. We both have been surprised often here in Houston. And in answering the survey questions we get from MDA, we have not felt sad and it asks that over and over. Yes, we are still doing things. There was never one question that asked us if we were "surprised". Nope, not one. I suppose that's expected and normal. 

Even though I want to dance around and smile all day today, David's outlook is much different. It's not as much of a celebration to him. It is to me and you, as the Support Crew is waving their pom poms in the air like they just don't care. Yet, David's minds eye does not see this as we do. Since I'm not in his shoes, I'm not the right person to explain it completely. All I can say is that this appears to be a moment of finality for him. Kind of like when you work really hard at painting the outside of your house, all by yourself, and you're exhausted. It's been worth it, and you've invested a lot of time into a big project all on your own. And when you're done you step back and gloat over the outcome, have a tall glass of iced tea and reflect. That's what I see David doing. Reflecting. I'm celebrating. His recipe for Day 45 is a heaping cup of reflection with a sprinkle of celebration and a dash of relief. 

MDA Rocks

As David left to go for his final treatment, and I to pack up the apartment, I know he'll be saying Goodbye to some of his most favorite people he's met along the way here in Houston and MDA. Danna, Khanh, Ashley, Swandolyn, Maria, Lacinda, Connie and so many more. You know how when you're tired and your emotions are fragile, you tend to cry more. That will be David telling his people Bye For Now. It's going to be rewarding yet tough. He's got his thank you cards written, his gift cards ready to give out (Nikos Nikos, Dr P!) and his sun-shiny face smiling and ready to tell people what they meant to him. I can't be there today, as no family inside all willy-nilly increasing the exposure to covid, but I'm there in spirit. I've had the opportunity to meet these wonderful people, and I would be hugging their necks if only I could. Thank you, I would tell them, for taking such damn good care of my husband - and every one else they make feel extra special every single day. I thank you. Keep doing what you do, keep being you, and know that you make a difference in peoples lives every day. And Danna, you'll get you a donkey one day. I just know you will.

Nothing better than a donkey donk couple 

Come so far

Yet, so far to go. The one thing I failed to mention was this morning, on this last day of his radiation he gets out of bed, steps out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where I'm having coffee. He's holding his arms and hands in the air, chest out walking as if he just passed through the finish line of a marathon race - and he won. I giggled watching him in his own little world with a private celebration in his head. His smile said it all. Although reflection was a big part of his morning, there was a release of this excited energy he wanted to let loose. 

He felt teary, happy, sad, elated, exhausted and 101 other emotions all at the same time. He's going through all the radiation and chemo because his body, in the ultimate betrayal, is trying to kill him. But one thing's for sure, David does not go down without a fight. He's called me leather and salt for a long time now, and back at cha. Turns out, he's leather and salt, not letting cancer treatment get the best of him. He tough, he's salty but his superpower is his stubbornness. What others have been a witness to and considered this trait not always in anyone's best interest is actually David's best tool in his Skills Toolbox. Cancer bounces off of stubborn. The Big C knocks him down, and he's back up in the ring again, fighting. Cancer treatment takes David's stubbornness to a new level. He was absolutely determined to not get a feeding tube. I mean, how do you get bbq through that tiny tube anyway. He was determined to drive himself to his treatments and choose a wheelchair on only 1 day out of 45. Even Dr Rosenthal, his radiation oncologist told David today how amazing he has done during these last 7 weeks. Dr R would release him to go back home, and informed him he will need follow ups every 2 months for a year. Then every 3 months for the next year, then every 4 months for the next year. And then they would talk after that. 

The Get Away

I literally did not want to pack the truck up until I got word from David that he's released. Once he arrived back to the apartment, I had most things packed and stacked in the living room. We dared not put anything in the truck until we knew for sure. Now we knew for sure. The excitement was uncontainable, but yet exhausting for David. He finally gets to go home 💕

With the truck packed, The Littles in their spot for their new normal of traveling back and forth for 5 hours, and David riding shotgun - we pulled out of our assigned spot #169 in The Greenbriar Park apartments. I took a mental picture of this moment. 45 days in the life is not all that long. But 45 days in the life with cancer treatment is eternity. I'm so proud of him and how he has handled this adventure. We are now leaving cancer island, and speeding down I45 back to a renewed outlook on life with new ideas and thoughts. We just don't know if cancer is following behind us - or not - and that weighs heavy on David. But not heavy enough to stop him from being the happiest guy in the world at this moment. He will never be the same, and I'm loving this new version of David 2.0. Determined to live life now, and the idea of living forever has vanished. I can tell you from my experience with my own cancer that it teaches me to see life through a shinier and brighter lens. And now that David and I both see through this lens, it's truly a bonding experience. We both got the same memo : Enjoy life today. Today was italicized and in bold.  

Farm Sweet Farm

We arrived back to Gunter late, hence why the blog is happening so late tonight on this 45th day. I wanted to be in every moment today. David finished his cancer treatment marathon and won. We are blessed to now know what this is all about -the nitty gritty details of radiation and chemo. How many times have you heard people tell you they went through this. I know, too many. But it's the details that are left out. Yes, it's a very private experience, and at the same time it's an experience to be shared and celebrated. Almost like looking behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz. What happens back there? We all have a bird's eye view of what it's about now. Or at least what it looked like for us. Everyone has their own experience and attitudes about cancer treatment. We will look back on it with mixed emotions, but the primary one that is a mainstay is gratitude. We thank you, God, for seeing us through this. We are grateful for this experience. We are thankful for all the lessons that cancer teaches. It provides clarity in our life, and immense empathy for those who also visit cancer island. 

FINALLY

Day 45 has been magical. David has never been happier to be home than I saw him today. He's now turned his attention to his recovery and self indulgence, as he should. It's time to do things. ALL the things you want to do. Let's do that, and more.....

And to you, our friends and family, it's time to breathe a sigh of relief that the torture has ceased. We exited cancer island and although we are well aware that at Hotel Carcinoma, you can check out anytime you'd like, but you can never leave - that's okay, we be over here livin it up, y'all. Livin it up. 

Time to get back to farming,

C