Limping to the Finish Line

I feel the need to post something to get that owl off my front page, but it is tough. I had a hard weekend with the effects of the chemotherapy. I had to drag myself out of bed for five days of shots (formerly Granix, now called Zarxio) to address my very low white blood count. And I have anemia– dizziness, ringing in my ears, tightness in my chest. But mostly I have just had about 3-4 days where I couldn’t do anything, not even read, because I’m in a weird bubble. Chemoland.

This morning, with the last Zarxio shot, we also drew blood because I might need a transfusion for the anemia. Tomorrow. I want to keep on track for the final chemotherapy on Wednesday.

The weather has been beautiful. Mostly what that has meant for me is my patio door in the bedroom has been open. And that has added a strange level to the Chemoland experience. The night the owl was killed both Steve and I were really upset. I went to bed and woke up, I swear, to hooting out beyond my patio door. I thought maybe it was the chickens cooing or clucking in their coop, but it definitely sounded like an owl. It made me think an owl was mourning the other, looking for its mate, circling the area.

The coyotes were also active out in the woods. They sound close, and like a large pack. Their first round was hunting– you hear the rabbit or whatever it is after squealing along with the howling. About 2 a.m. something started that sounded like a drag race– one car after another revving up and speeding, Nascar sounds. The coyotes joined the noise and took up howling again.

The whole natural world was active, not calm. Everything was very still, and I felt like I was dream traveling in that world. I pulled on my comforter, for the weight and sense of protection, though it wasn’t cold.

Yesterday I had Steve kill Fred and clean and treat the coop for possible mites or lice. I just couldn’t cope, and was having visions of her freezing to death in the barn. It is unseasonably warm, but that won’t last. Even if we successfully treated her for mites, the feathers don’t grow back quickly. I also wouldn’t put a sick chicken in the barn for winter with the other chickens. In another year, I would have been on it and done the treatment. But not this year.

It might sound heartless. I’m trying to think like a farmer– it’s a chicken, though we didn’t eat her because I don’t know what was wrong with her. I will get more chicks in the spring. And the other three chickens are beautiful, successfully molted and ready for winter. I’m not sad about her. I’m just tired.

It has been a strange year of ups and downs.

My book was published, and I was diagnosed with cancer at almost the same time.

The Cubs won the World Series (I’m not a big fan, but I am from a Chicago suburb and have lived in Chicago as an adult), and the election season has been so rancorous and suggests such deep anger in our country (no matter who wins).

And cancer itself has been a nightmare and a blessing. Knowing so many people love me, and reconciliation with my sister is something I would never trade. But, cancer and chemotherapy and major surgery and all that entails.

I have made plans and bought tickets to go to Long Beach, California and to Seattle/Tacoma for three weeks in January-February. A lot of cancer survivor materials talk about the need to rebuild physical confidence. I plan on long walks and yoga and good food and visits with friends. And hopefully writing, too.

And definitely checking in with you, my friends. Definitely blogging.

When I come home it will be time to start the leeks on the windowsill.