Cycle 3: Surrendering
At home, I’m awoken at 6 am by excessive head boops from a voraciously purring cat named Fred. In the hospital, I’m awoken at 4 am by a nurse with a needle, mining my small and mysterious veins for a blood sample.
Needless to say, on day four of seven in the hospital for cycle three, I am one sleepy, mildly grumpy girl.
My time in the hospital starts with bursts of energy. Walking laps around the ward, feeling capable, staying out of the entrapments of bed until the evening. By the midway point, as the drip drip drip of the chemo takes over, I find my spirit soggy around the edges. The outside world seems miles beyond the windowpane. I fight to keep my eyelids open and hit that call button routinely for a little pill called Zofran (which sounds like a fortune-telling Wizard you find at a carnival booth) to stave off the feeling of being on a wibbly wobbly boat out to sea.
I figured, while in the thick of it, I’d share some of the helpful tips I’ve received for anyone who may be or may know someone also moonlighting as a cast of Real World: Hospital.
From Caesar, the Picc Line Technician: It is the quality of the food you intake over the quantity.
Let’s not beat around the over-cooked and saltless bush: hospital food is…it’s well…it’s so bad! Admittedly, I find it a bit confusing to encourage a healthy diet when the menu is comprised of greasy meatloaf and asparagus with it’s nutrient-soul completely cooked out. My inner-sabateur, the disordered voice from the corner, notes my daily weight number and dares me to take on a hunger strike. Unfortunately, for that bish and fortnuately for me, I have funds and support to provide supplimental foods, like almond butter and dried chickpeas for protein. Dried veggie chips for some color. Lesser Evil popcorn (fiery flavor) for fun. The quality is there, Caesar, even if my appetite fluctuates on the quantity. AND I need to note: there is room for French fries. In fact, my favorite pre-hospital and post-hospital meal is an Impossible burger with a side of fries. Because life is short and fries are delicious and I’ve never been much of a number gal so that daily weight count can bite my juicy butt.
From Marie, the Charge Nurse: Legs are our second heart.
Move move move that body! I take 20-minute jaunts around the ward. It’s not as leisurely as a neighborhood sojourn, I will admit. I’m wobbling about with my IV pole and veering around nurses pushing their computer carts. I wear my headphones and listen to a podcast to emulate the experience of my walks while at home. I’ve also taken up QiGong. It’s movement that pushes and pulls the energy through and around my body. I find it doable even with two chords attached to my arm and in the limited space of my hospital room. I’m a huge fan of QiGong with LuChin.
From Every Nurse: Drink lots of water.
Flush flush flush those kidneys. We love drinking water, it’s practically all we talk about! Like dehydrated bebes to a well-like bottle. And for good reason. It helps flush the nonsense swirling around internally. It keeps the dreaded C-word (constipation) at bay. It tastes crisp and cool. Plus, peeing every 15 minutes helps pass the time.
From my Therapist: Use that darn call button, you crazy!
Shout out to my fellow recovering People Pleasers! News flash: not even a cancer diagnosis can automatically break the PP cycle. This is why I have a therapist. To remind me that there is a help button on my bedside for a reason. I shared with her that my instinct is to hesitate when I need something or feel pain. I assume the needs around me are greater, and others' pain is meaner. I bet if she could legally, she would slap me across the face. Instead, she said, “Girl, you have cancer just as much as any other patient on that ward. Your needs and pain are real and right now. And those doctors and nurses are literally being paid to help you so ask for help.” I promised her I would give it a try.
From Hope, the visiting volunteer from the local Synagogue: Morning dew drops.
In Judaism, the morning dew drops are a symbol of healing. Hope, an artsy, young-grandma figure with wide green-brimmed glasses, visits me during each of my hospital stays. She shared this wisdom with me and said she likes to think of the chemo drops as representing the same thing for me. Each drop a symbol of healing.
From my Mom: Collect data.
It’s easy to forget the highs and lows of the previous cycle and exactly when they fell on the calendar. During the recovery period post-cycle two, my mom suggested I keep a daily log of how I felt, my energy level, my appetite, and my pain levels. This is so that post-cycle three, when I find myself crumpled under the covers with every bone screaming “ouch!” I’m not as surprised, as that is the pattern of those first few days. And I can rest my aching heart knowing that by the end of the second week, I will be chirping at the squirrels and birds from my balcony like a bald Snow White.
From Me and my Mom: Manage your expectations.
Once crossing the threshold of the double-sliding hospital doors, surrender to a time zone where time doesn’t exist. During this third cycle, a bed was ready for me by 7 a.m., and we were excited to get this party started. Only for the patterns of the day and the availability of the chemo order to postpone the start of treatment a whole day. My discharge day was Friday, and it is now Sunday. Leaving me to write the word ‘Surrender’ on every visible surface. Humming ‘Surrender’ under my breath as an itch and pace. If only Fred and George were here.
From Me: Bring your home with you, to the extent that you are able.
If I had my way, you better believe Fred and George would be running amok in this hospital room. Instead, I’m making do with other creature comforts. I decorated the window mantle with origami hearts, colorful scarves, a fake orchid plant, a framed photo of F&G, and the art projects I can grab with ease. I leveled up this round by bringing my own pillow and comforter. It has made a HUGE difference. Plus, if you are so lucky, as I am, keep those darn windows wide, wide, wide open. Seven days without kissing the outside air is brutal on the spirit. Let the light in where you can.
With love and anti-nausea meds,
Your Girl, Nutmeg
