Chemotherapy 12 of 12 (or finished ALL 6 cycles)

Today was my final chemotherapy, at least with ABVD.  I've gotten my lifetime dose of doxorubicin.  In other words, I cannot do this again.  If it failed, I'm on to something else, which is scary because ABVD truly wasn't the worst cancer regimen around, but if it failed there is obviously no sense in doing it again.


So, this will be a very special edition of Josh-Vs-Lymphoma, for two reasons.
1) I've finished my chemotherapy
2) This round was bad, I cannot sleep, and so it may be particularly insightful.


As I noted early on, I started this blog for several reasons with the biggest one keeping anyone who wanted updated on my progress without feeling as though they are bugging me (which I still don't mind, btw).  It is admittedly easier than so many emails, but I enjoy the email too.  The other reason is because journaling is supposed to be important as a process.  The last is so that it may be helpful for others or myself looking forward or back at different times.  I've tried to minimize the "other distractions," perhaps not so successfully, in order to give everyone a glimpse into exactly what I am going through.  I've saved some of the most unpleasant details, and some of the deepest thoughts.


So, why blog tonight so late?  I cannot sleep, and I assure you it is not out of excitement.  So, you may get some random thoughts.  As a warning, they may not be coherent, or, I may get tired again before getting to them.  


They saved one of the worst for last.  Wow.  This was a knockout punch before it was even fully delivered.  I don't think I helped myself.  One piece of advice from a fellow Hodgkins survivor was to not overdo it before I was done.  This great piece of advice is something I maybe should have followed but did not.  I tried to cram as much fun and activity into my "good" weekend before chemo as possible.  Why?  I finally felt like my old self again, something I can say about 4-5 individual days -to date- in about 10 months.  There was NO WAY I was going to take them easy, and despite the pain now, I don't regret one second of that.  


On Sunday, I rode my new mountain bike for 2 hours and 20 minutes, all up and down some shaded hills outside Conifer, CO.  I rode harder than I have in months, and I had a blast.  The nice thing about being a relative newbie again was that even in that short time, I learned things and got better.   I don't regret that even a little, despite the possibility it may be adding to my pain now.  I regret not bothering with recoverite when I was done, since the effort was harder than I immediately thought.  After that, I watched a bunch of TV and stayed up late in the hopes I'd sleep through chemo, which I did.


Chemotherapy was early, and morning came fast.  The day at the infusion center didn't go by so fast.  I did get my venti, iced, non-fat, caffeine-free latte.   Why?  Flavor and smell.  It has also occurred to me that I never have posted a picture of what chemo day looks like, so here goes:

So, the infusion center has two sides.  On this side, you have this view of downtown Denver and, in theory, the front range.   The other side I think I like better because you have a few of the helicopter ambulance pad:  A reminder that someone always has it worse, plus, who doesn't enjoy watching that action?   (This isn't a necessary reminder in oncology, by the way).   I'm reading a kindle that some very dear friends sent us upon diagnosis, and wearing a Salt Lake Bees hat my parents sent me from their recent travels.  Beyond that, I really don't even recognize myself anymore, despite the fact that I see myself in the mirror several times daily.  Who is this?  The hair is only a small part of it, I don't even recognize my face, and on chemo day, my skin color is all different.  I stopped shaving my head Saturday.  I cannot stop shaving my face, however.  At this point I cannot grow a mustache or a soul patch, and so in completeness, this would make for a very weird Abe Lincoln / Amish style beard.  The neck beard still grows like kudzu, illustrating yet another injustice of cancer.


On yout last chemo session, all of the nurses sing part of "Hit the road, Jack" to you.  I don't particularly like being individually sung to (except for maybe a mariachi band at a Mexican restaurant), but they also give you a nice card, which I just opened now as I type because I'm more awake now around midnight, than I was then.  Some of these nurses are just the most special people, but I do hope I don't have "Come back no more (no more,  no more)."  


I laid down almost immediately upon getting home.  I'm not sure for how long, but I got so much fluid, I was up to the bathroom about every 90 minutes.  I still am.   After a while, Sarah brought Chinese take-out.  I only ate half of my meal, which is unusual, but because I simply didn't need it all.  After that was about 90 minutes of DVR'd History Channel (I love the Ice Road Truckers) and then bed again.   I decided to sleep in the basement tonight because it is cooler and I had an expectation.


My expectation was bleomycin sweats, and it came true.  This is why I'm up now.  (Not a huge prediction, I've had it the last two doses).  I'm laying on the futon sweating and I decided to get more tylenol, which is the recommended cure.  Then, I laid back down and noticed how many little lights I had in the basement.  Enough to light up the fat heads of both Ryan Braun and Aaron Rodgers.  (For those of you sportsfans out there, I wrote one of the Rodgers fathead reviews.  Try to guess which one.)   So I'm laying on the futon, pondering life, and it made sense to blog since sleeping seems to be out, momentarily.  It also made sense since I typically write about each session the "Tuesday-after" in the morning and I expect to be a walking zombie by then.


I was correct on my prediction from yesterday:  I have to pee constantly, and I'm very thirsty.  I'm also dizzy and stunned.   I have no idea why the chemo hit so hard this time, aside from all the extra activity lately.   It has not yet hit me that I will not be going back for more just yet.   Why?  I still have 2.5-3 painful days ahead, and then radiation.  That's a best case scenario, too.  As noted, I still worry that maybe this didn't work and I will be going back and if that is the case, it'll be for something much worse.


Having said all that, I am a little excited to be "done" for now.  It is a tempered excitement, and the happiest part of it is that no matter what happens now, I'll have a few weeks (once past the impending days of fatigue and pain) of being normal -really almost back to my old normal- before the radiation starts.  Now I'm just being repetitive, but I really have not had that in going on a year.   I have a lot of work to do.  I'm going to eat a few foods that I've been denied for so long, and then I need to get to work on losing about 25 pounds, so I'm going to hit the bike hard.  (And eat more appropriately, after those few indulgences).  I can also start looking for the "new normal" that cancer survivors describe, since life never goes back to old normal.  Parade magazine talked about this yesterday: 

Last year Livestrong surveyed more than 2000 cancer survivors about their concerns. What was most interesting, notes Ruth Rechis, the foundation's director of evaluation and research, was that "even up to 20 years out, no one had had all their issues resolved."

Not surprising findings, but I'm not even officially one day out, let alone 20 years.   


Well, by now the tylenol has kicked in to mellow out the bleomycin late night party, so, I'll probably look for my sleeping bag again momentarily.


Josh Vs. Lymphoma:  Lymphoma may have taken the first few rounds, but I think with the help of the oncologist, we've battled back to at least even and probably more.  I sure hope it is time to deliver a few knockout punches of our own.