Ed had chemo treatment number 15 on Wednesday, December 16, 2009. First, we saw Dr. Splichal for the regular 'check-in'. The hi lights of this visit are as follows:
* Ed weighed 185 lbs. He has lost 5 lbs. over the past few months. (Not a bad thing. He is 'overweight' compared to his normal weight before all this brain tumor stuff started over a year ago).
* His blood pressure was slightly higher than it has been being, with the bottom number being 90. But the nurse said he is still in the 'good' range.
* Dr. S said Ed still doing well for a brain tumor/cancer patient. He does see that the chemo has weakened him.
* The doctor examined Ed's feet, as I told him that his feet had been turning a dark purple-y color. He explained that Ed's feet were getting oxygen (he has hair on his toes...if no oxygen were getting to the toes there would be no hair growing on them), but the veins in his legs were compromised and therefore the blood is slow to return back up the leg. He did not think this was of grave concern. However, if the blood/oxygen was not getting to the feet it would be a concern.
* Dr. S also examined Ed's abdomen, in an area where we have noticed a bulging out, or swelling. Dr. S said the same thing the Physician's Assistant, Meredith, said last week. He did not feel a mass and it was too low to be a broken rib. He said perhaps Ed has a hernia in the area. He did not express that this was a major concern right now either.
* Dr. S. went over the same thing he has told us the last couple of times we saw him, that he wants Ed to take chemo treatments as usual through January 2010, and then take a break from chemo to let him regain his strength. He said he will have an MRI done in February to determine the progress of treatment. He mentioned once again that we may want to consider hospice.
I am having a hard time wrapping my mind around 'hospice'. I have believed that hospice is called in when you are ready to stop all treatment and prepare yourself for your end on this earth. However, I have been following a young man who has a fast growing cancer of the lungs ( I believe), and the person who writes the blog says that this young man goes to hospice to get support and get 'built back up' in a sense.
When Ed's doctors mention hospice, he withdraws, and I cringe. But maybe I need to do more research. Maybe it doesn't mean only that they come in to make you comfortable so you can die in peace and with dignity. Note to self: Research Hospice.
Dr. S seemed especially loving and gentle with Ed today. He hugged him, held his hand, held his face and head between his two hands. He told us how amazing it has been that Ed has come this far. Dr. S seems genuinely to care about him. But sometimes I feel he wants to give up, but don't feel like Ed is.
On to the treatment center where we scope out treatment rooms for the best seat. We chose room #4 again, as it only seats two patients and affords more privacy. Even though the room does not have a tv, sink, and only one visitor chair, it is still more attractive to us then the big communal areas. Ed's IV is started without incident.
Soon we are joined by Glenda. At first, Glenda doesn't seem to want to be put into the room with us, but the nurse urges her take this spot as chairs are running out quickly and she may end up sitting in the crowded waiting room until another chair opens up.
I sit and doze in my chair, and Glenda grows bored and introduces herself and from that point on she pretty much talked non-stop. She was in her late 50's, early 60's. She had found a lump in her breast earlier this year and in quick succession she had a mastectomy and chemo. She went on to tell us how devastating it was to her and how much terrible physical pain she had suffered and how her port was sore, and how her life had changed.
Also, today was her last chemo treatment. She was so happy of that fact. She had tears in her eyes telling me and Ed today was her last treatment, and when any nurse came into the room she told them.
I wanted to be happy for her. And I knew deep inside I was VERY happy for her, but when she told us this I looked at Ed and I saw his face and knew he was thinking, I don't have a date for my last chemo treatment. Actually, Chemo No. 18 could be his last treatment; because who knows if Dr. S will approve him for another round after his 'break'. I wanted to be happy for Glenda because she had traveled a hard road; she suffered the loss of her breast, she had a port in her chest to receive treatments through, she had lost her ability to drive - be it temporarily, she had been in terrible pain and suffered panic attacks, even having one during her treatment that day. But I couldn't feel the happiness for her like I should, because the sadness for my dad overwhelmed me and took over my emotions.
I sat and smiled at her, wished her much luck, and said all the right things, the whole time struggling not to let the tears start flowing. If they ever start, they are hard to contain and get under control. I try really hard not to cry in front of Ed in public. It would make him cry and we would be two soggy messes!
When we left, we bid Glenda goodbye. We heard her story of pain and triumph, she heard Ed's story of struggle to remain as normal as possible...what little bit I could tell between her happy outbursts. She was too happy to feel much empathy for him, and I was too sad to feel much happiness for her.
But I vowed to feel happy for her 'tomorrow', after I got past this day. It's not that it was a particularly sad day, no terrible news or anything. It's just hearing someone say 'I am finished with treatment', or 'I am cancer free', may not be something we will ever hear for him, so it's hard to celebrate at that moment because of that realization.
But I promise, I will be happy for you. Tomorrow.
* Ed weighed 185 lbs. He has lost 5 lbs. over the past few months. (Not a bad thing. He is 'overweight' compared to his normal weight before all this brain tumor stuff started over a year ago).
* His blood pressure was slightly higher than it has been being, with the bottom number being 90. But the nurse said he is still in the 'good' range.
* Dr. S said Ed still doing well for a brain tumor/cancer patient. He does see that the chemo has weakened him.
* The doctor examined Ed's feet, as I told him that his feet had been turning a dark purple-y color. He explained that Ed's feet were getting oxygen (he has hair on his toes...if no oxygen were getting to the toes there would be no hair growing on them), but the veins in his legs were compromised and therefore the blood is slow to return back up the leg. He did not think this was of grave concern. However, if the blood/oxygen was not getting to the feet it would be a concern.
* Dr. S also examined Ed's abdomen, in an area where we have noticed a bulging out, or swelling. Dr. S said the same thing the Physician's Assistant, Meredith, said last week. He did not feel a mass and it was too low to be a broken rib. He said perhaps Ed has a hernia in the area. He did not express that this was a major concern right now either.
* Dr. S. went over the same thing he has told us the last couple of times we saw him, that he wants Ed to take chemo treatments as usual through January 2010, and then take a break from chemo to let him regain his strength. He said he will have an MRI done in February to determine the progress of treatment. He mentioned once again that we may want to consider hospice.
I am having a hard time wrapping my mind around 'hospice'. I have believed that hospice is called in when you are ready to stop all treatment and prepare yourself for your end on this earth. However, I have been following a young man who has a fast growing cancer of the lungs ( I believe), and the person who writes the blog says that this young man goes to hospice to get support and get 'built back up' in a sense.
When Ed's doctors mention hospice, he withdraws, and I cringe. But maybe I need to do more research. Maybe it doesn't mean only that they come in to make you comfortable so you can die in peace and with dignity. Note to self: Research Hospice.
Dr. S seemed especially loving and gentle with Ed today. He hugged him, held his hand, held his face and head between his two hands. He told us how amazing it has been that Ed has come this far. Dr. S seems genuinely to care about him. But sometimes I feel he wants to give up, but don't feel like Ed is.
On to the treatment center where we scope out treatment rooms for the best seat. We chose room #4 again, as it only seats two patients and affords more privacy. Even though the room does not have a tv, sink, and only one visitor chair, it is still more attractive to us then the big communal areas. Ed's IV is started without incident.
Soon we are joined by Glenda. At first, Glenda doesn't seem to want to be put into the room with us, but the nurse urges her take this spot as chairs are running out quickly and she may end up sitting in the crowded waiting room until another chair opens up.
I sit and doze in my chair, and Glenda grows bored and introduces herself and from that point on she pretty much talked non-stop. She was in her late 50's, early 60's. She had found a lump in her breast earlier this year and in quick succession she had a mastectomy and chemo. She went on to tell us how devastating it was to her and how much terrible physical pain she had suffered and how her port was sore, and how her life had changed.
Also, today was her last chemo treatment. She was so happy of that fact. She had tears in her eyes telling me and Ed today was her last treatment, and when any nurse came into the room she told them.
I wanted to be happy for her. And I knew deep inside I was VERY happy for her, but when she told us this I looked at Ed and I saw his face and knew he was thinking, I don't have a date for my last chemo treatment. Actually, Chemo No. 18 could be his last treatment; because who knows if Dr. S will approve him for another round after his 'break'. I wanted to be happy for Glenda because she had traveled a hard road; she suffered the loss of her breast, she had a port in her chest to receive treatments through, she had lost her ability to drive - be it temporarily, she had been in terrible pain and suffered panic attacks, even having one during her treatment that day. But I couldn't feel the happiness for her like I should, because the sadness for my dad overwhelmed me and took over my emotions.
I sat and smiled at her, wished her much luck, and said all the right things, the whole time struggling not to let the tears start flowing. If they ever start, they are hard to contain and get under control. I try really hard not to cry in front of Ed in public. It would make him cry and we would be two soggy messes!
When we left, we bid Glenda goodbye. We heard her story of pain and triumph, she heard Ed's story of struggle to remain as normal as possible...what little bit I could tell between her happy outbursts. She was too happy to feel much empathy for him, and I was too sad to feel much happiness for her.
But I vowed to feel happy for her 'tomorrow', after I got past this day. It's not that it was a particularly sad day, no terrible news or anything. It's just hearing someone say 'I am finished with treatment', or 'I am cancer free', may not be something we will ever hear for him, so it's hard to celebrate at that moment because of that realization.
But I promise, I will be happy for you. Tomorrow.
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