A lot of people have asked me how I am feeling the past few days. I feel outraged by most of the news. I feel concerned about the upcoming midterm elections. I feel hopeful that I’ll win the Mega Millions jackpot. I feel excited to have friends in town soon for my birthday party. I feel happy that I had two great vacations back-to-back.
People are asking about my health, though. I had my third PRRT treatment yesterday, and now I’m back to feeling pretty good. This afternoon was a rare time of feeling bad. I feel fatigued. My stomach and bowels feel a little weird. I made a long list of things I wanted to do today, when I’m stuck at home and radioactive, and I spent my afternoon curled up on my bathroom floor.
While on the floor, I had time to reflect on how much more fun my other recent Saturdays have been. Last Saturday, I was in Bermuda, on pink-sand beach, basking in the sun. The Saturday before that, my mom was in town, and we took a tour of my neighborhood that included Key lime pie, a stop at the local winery, barbecue, and ice cream. (Plus a bonus trip to Marshall’s for comfortable shoes. Though we received condescending service from my once-favorite local restaurant, it couldn’t mar the fun week we had together.) The Saturday before that, I was in Paris with my mom and a friend, popping into museums and churches, and attending an opera at Palais Garnier in my wig and a new dress I bought in five minutes at the train station. The Saturday before that, my friend and I had spent the morning at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam then angered a shuttle bus driver and boarded a plane for Copenhagen, where we met up with a good friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. He made us dinner and we went to Octoberfest, where we watched drunken Danish people dressed as Germans drink large steins of beer and sing “Time of My Life.” The Saturday before that was my 10-year New York City anniversary and my cat’s birthday, and I started the day out soaking up the last of my free week trial at a fancy gym, taking a treadmill/strength class, then sitting in a sauna infused with essential oils, followed by a dip in the 
mineral pool. Then I met up with friends in town and we ate pizza and then took the ferry to my neighborhood for that Key lime pie and view of the Statue of Liberty before heading to a local bakery for a treat to put my cat’s birthday candle in. At my apartment, my second set of friends in town briefly overlapped for a rendition of “Happy Birthday” to the cat. (He received treats and a David Bowie shirt that he appeased us by briefly wearing for photos, proving himself to be a very patient creature who will do anything to ham it up for attention.) Then we went to a bar with a bunch of wax figurines and ate some paella at a food court and ran into some other friends and then we played Chutes and Ladders at a place in my neighborhood that I went to a decade earlier after I spent the day looking at apartments.
In fact, sometimes I forget I’m sick. I was surprised to come back from Bermuda and have a bloodwork appointment on Tuesday in preparation for Thursday’s treatment. I tried to cram as much fun as I could before this weekend of relaxation and radioactivity. On Tuesday night, I went to see some bands and then on Wednesday night I saw David Bowie’s Lodger performed (for free!) in a mall near my workplace.
I prepared my things for Thursday, setting aside my laptop and my clothes and workout clothes. I decided to go to an early workout since I will be radioactive and can’t be sweaty around people for about a week. I was worried I wouldn’t make it to the class (the trains!) but I made it and was feeling good about my decisions until I showered and realized that the rest of my clothes were still on my bed at home. I put my workout clothes back on and went to the hospital for treatment.
By now, I know the drill, so I was given graham crackers and put on my pre-medications through my accessed Mediport. The IV took a bit to put in, as my veins are all used up. When my veins were finally cooperative, I had the treatment again. I wasn’t quite as sleepy as before so I was able to talk to the doctors a bit.
Initially, I was slated to have a half-dose again, like last time. My platelets and hemoglobin dropped after the first full treatment, and remained steady after the second treatment. However, this time it was agreed that I could have the full dose for the PRRT benefits. I think if my blood counts are still off, I might get a transfusion. (I’ve had them before. It’s Halloween! Let’s get the vampire stuff going, I say.)
As before, I’m radioactive. I maximize my distance for others for a few days. No eating or drinking off the same plates for six days. I have to wash my clothes separately for six days. No gym for six days. (Though I managed an ab workout at home under the skeptical eyes of a tabby cat.)
I’m not supposed to hold infants for longer than 30 minutes per day for about 10 days, something that isn’t a problem. “What about the cats?” I asked last time. They are small. I’m told their lifespans aren’t long enough to worry about effects. But they’re young. I worry.
“Some people treat their pets like children,” the radiation officer said to me when I asked again this time. I just nodded. We ended up talking about Halloween and when I told her that I had dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and one cat was the woodsman, one was the wolf and one was the grandmother, I feel like maybe she got a better sense of my relationship with my cats. I have tried to keep my distance. I put a stepladder and handweights against the door of the bedroom, but they pushed it open. Last night, I put my nightstand against the door and I awoke to the smallest cat mewling in my face for breakfast. I think the radiation is turning them into super-strong mutant cats. Tonight I will try something larger as a barrier.
After I started to feel better today, I put on pants that I’d worn over my hot yoga (hot yoga, something I thought I’d never do again) clothes on Monday and went to the drugstore.
Today was a reminder: I have cancer.
It feels so good to forget sometimes though. There are reminders: the surgery scars, the Mediport in my chest, the bouts of fatigue or digestive issues, the bruises that seem to appear from nowhere, the hair loss.
Having my life back, even for a short time, has been so good. In four short months, I feel so different from the woman I was when I first received the treatment.
The doctors estimated about a year from the outset of treatment. I’m one-third through that. Tick-tock goes the invisible clock. As with anything, even time that feels stolen isn’t enough. It’s not the loss of time that scares me; it’s the taste of the inevitable end that haunts my thoughts sometimes.
Do we ever have enough time? There’s so much more I want to do. That feels better at least, than the deeply sad resignation I had earlier this year.
In reading that item from July, however, as I plan to buy some Mega Millions tickets, I realize I also haven’t given up on winning the lottery.