Adaptation

Today is the last day of my second round of chemo. I thought this round would deliver a bigger punch, but I've been tolerating it a little better than the first round. It's been great not being constantly attached to Dmitry. And actually, I don't even have Dmitry anymore. I got a new pole. And as I write this I wonder, have I already told this story? I know chemo affects memory, so if you've heard all this before I'll just blame it on the chemo. I should be able to use that excuse for at least a year, right? My new pole doesn't have a name yet, but I'm asking all the Polish nurses (there are many) for their opinions.

I realize I haven't written in a couple days, and it's probably because I've been too busy eating. The steroids have induced me to eat a couple giant burritos, a quesadilla, Colombian (I think?) food truck goodies, and an array of Mediterranean food. There may have been some more Thai green curry in there somewhere. I've lost track. In any case, I feel my body adapting to this weird chemo stuff. But it's also my medical team adjusting my treatment to match what my body is doing. For instance, Dr. Thienelt, the current attending on the Hem/Onc team, just walked in and took a look at my cankles and decided to take me off IV fluids altogether. So now I can look forward to some of this swelling going down. And more time away from the pole. Hooray.

Other adaptations are in progress. Everyone is always curious about my current hair situation, or at least I imagine they are, and everyone wants to know how I feel about it. At least, I imagine they do. At this point, my hair is more of a curiosity. I'm watching the baldness grow, and arranging my hair in different combover styles, seeing how much baldness I can see at once, then how much I can hide it by fluffing my hair over it, then pulling it into a curly-Q to see if I can embellish the bald spot more. It's fun for a minute, but my scalp is very sensitive and I spend way too much time every day taking a lint roller to my various head dressings and sheets and shirts and everything else. It's time for the clippers.

But I will indulge you with some recent images before I take it all off. First, a couple artsy selfies:

And here's me with a fun wig, my nurses Khursha and Linda checking me out like I'm walking off the set of GLOW:

Maybe one of these days I'll be bold enough to post a combover. I definitely wouldn't put it past me.

There is one more adaptation that is probably the weirdest. And it has to do with the transition away from independence. I've always liked the feeling that I could do things on my own and take care of myself, not need anyone to take care of me, not be a burden on anyone. But now I am so far from that luxury. I have put my life in the hands of doctors to manipulate the deepest of my innards at their will. I can hardly leave my hospital room. I need someone to bring me every piece of food I put in my mouth. I have to ask someone else to bring me every single thing I ever want. Independence just walked right out the door.

But the pouring in of food and care and compassion is like taking a warm bath, and my resistance to accepting gifts and help and love is at an all time low. I know this for sure when Brent can help me take a shower, bloated and bruised body exposed, left arm wrapped in plastic, hair coming out in wet wads that stick to my hands and the walls and everything else. And he can still make me believe I'm beautiful.

The next pictures you see of me will hopefully involve some skull art. Any suggestions?