karenulijohn

I have waited a few days since Harvey’s third chemotherapy infusion to see if anything new develops.  I am happy to say that, at this writing, he is not experiencing any side effects with the exception of some mild flushing the day after the treatment.  He is continuing to keep his weight up and is able to eat fairly normally, although what he eats has to appeal to him.  Food that appeals to him one day may not be so appealing the next day, and he will have trouble getting it to stay down.  We have continued to live our lives as normally as possible, participating in the Lincoln Hometown 4th of July Parade, BBQ with friends, brunch with the church fellowship, etc.  He begins daily radiation on Tuesday along with his weekly chemotherapy session.  I pray that he continues to be free of side effects.

I have been asked on several occasions how I am doing.  I think the best way to describe that would be to ask you to imagine that Harvey and I are passengers on a flight to some exotic island for a much-deserved vacation.  We are midway through the flight at cruising altitude, and Harvey is sleeping, loudly, in the seat by the window.  I am working on a crossword puzzle when the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign is illuminated.  Shortly thereafter,  there is a voice from the cockpit, “Ah, folks, this is the Captain speaking.  We are getting reports of some “chop” up ahead.  So, for your own safety, we have turned on the seat belt sign and ask you to return to your seats…”  I am instantly on alert.  I check Harvey’s seat belt (because he is still sleeping), cinch my own up tight, put up my tray table, put away my crossword puzzle book, and grasp the arm rests tightly.  My mind is racing, full of questions such as “when will the bumpiness start; five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour?  How long will it last?  Will it last for the rest of the flight or just a few minutes?  Will it be severe chop?  Mild chop?  Mildly severe chop?”  I nudge Harvey to let him know I’m frightened, and he sleepily pats my hand and mumbles something like “It will be all right, Sweetie!”  I look at him indignantly and say “That’s it?  That’s all you’ve got?”  This analogy turns much darker when I am lying awake in the middle of the night.  The turbulence becomes so severe that it rips the wings off of the plane and we crash and burn!  So, the direct answer to the question “How am I doing?” is, I am permanently braced for severe chop!