Thirteen Days In

Faina is now thirteen days into her first post-surgery cycle of chemotherapy. The plan is for three three-week cycles. The chemo is supposed to get progressively more difficult as there is a cumulative toxic effect. The treatment is hitting her a lot harder this time around, but she has no doubt that she will make it through the nine weeks. Tomorrow will be a hydration appointment at the oncology center. Next week, the second cycle will begin with the three letter bomb, ECF. Throughout, she has a Walkman-like pump steadily administering the F of the three, fluorouracil. In the still of the night, or at quiet moments, the pump's intermittent dosings break the quiet like a subtle reminder of its presence.

It has been interesting having Margo home mending from her bunionectomy at the same time. Together they have burned through every DVD or On Demand offering of Dexter and are working through Michael C. Hall's earlier work, Six Feet Under; the HBO production set in a funeral home. Yea, put that image in your pipe and smoke it.

Faina is still working on the whole eating thing. Not having a stomach anymore re-writes that playbook. Certainty is out, unpredictability is in, big time. Sometimes foods go down easy, othertimes she is practically catatonic, just lying still waiting for a wave of discomfort to pass by. The five course meals of old are out, lots of small meals are in; concerns about weight are out, noshing over the course of the day is in; Coffee is out, tea is in; Sugar is out, honey is in; Crackers are in; almond biscotti is in; and, to her even greater pleasure, gin and tonic is still in. Every morning her night table bears the signs of a nocturnal field trip to the kitchen, a banana peel, an apple core, occasionally a wrapper of one kind or another.

Every day is a gift, a new adventure, a never ending string of surprises.