Paranoid

It's 8:53pm and I'm ready to head to bed. I was scared. Actually more paranoid today than I ever thought possible. Perhaps because in 2009 I was 29 and totally ignorantly blissful about life and just exactly how chemo treatments worked...at 36 knowing what I know now....well I got a little paranoid. I think I stoped the nurse several times to ask her questions that had already been answered but the "just in case" thought would compel me to sit up in my chair and say ..." what about my heart, I'm not 29 anymore and Adriamycin is so toxic". She would respond..."Yes, it is, but at 1/10 of the suggested dose it will not do anything to your heart". I would sit back down, another thought would pop up...and I'd stop her, "what about the port, what if you hit it outside of where you are suppose to puncture it...will I die?"...her response with a cute little smile "no dear, not at all".

But it went well. The insulin did what it was suppose to, at one point I really did feel faint and clammy - what they call the therapeutic moment, according to the IPT treatment protocol- cancer cells are getting angry and are desperately seeking their nourishment, sugar! As your body stops producing insulin and the insulin receptors on the cancer cells (about 20x's that of a healthy cell) start grasping at anything - you get the "Aha" moment, and feed them. You feed them chemo! I felt evil in a fun way, thinking to myself "die f#$%$^...die". But at the same time I was kinda getting a little too jittery...and was scared that I was going to go into coma (paranoid).

The facility was about 1 hour away from the Truckee house so I guess just as bad if I were going to Stanford or UCSF - unlike those drives, we were blessed with rolling mountains and the feel of Montana (never been, but that's what I picture it to look like). The oncology room was totally full, and as sad as it is to see people in chairs getting transfusions it was a relief to know that I'm not the only one embarking on this "alternative" journey. In fact most of the people were from out of state.

A gentleman sat about 4 chairs down from me, and when he spoke he sounded like he was purposely trying to sound like a woman. This is what esophageal cancer sounds like. Kaiser had sent him home to get his final weeks in order when he had decided to make a special trip from Seattle to visit this clinic. Now two weeks later, the tumors around the neck and charlie horse were dissolving. I heard all of this as he explained it to a visiting doctor. Actually my mother, Mrs. Nosy heard it all, and told me, of course in Spanish so the poor man would not know that she was talking about him.

Our morning started at 7:30am and now my mom, after dropping Mike off at the airport, was driving us back to Truckee. Now, picture this...my mother, who at 65 has NEVER driven to Tahoe up until a day ago (her knuckles were white), is now driving us back from Reno. Sounds easy enough, except that half way home, the freeway lanes start to all merge into one. Does not sound bad except that it feels like you are driving in the most narrow of roads, with a cement divider to your right and to your left, trapped, with about 2 inches of space so that if you slightly move to the right your done, and if you slightly move to the left you've crashed onto the oncoming traffic. Well, we made it! But I don't know anymore which was worse the chemo or my mom driving. I'll be driving on 395 South to Carson City for the next...I don't know how many weeks.

Goodnight and thank you for all of your prayers and thoughts!