Brendan has discovered the routine in this treatment, and can now predict the highs and lows of his side effects. This is a good week. A week free of nausea and the twice a day pill he would have to take to try and chase it off. A week free of most of the nagging awful feelings that follow him around. There are good weeks like these, and then there are the awful weeks - periods between treatments where the pills are taken in vain. Where there is no adequate defense against the inevitable.
Good weeks are spoiled, of course, by the newest addition to the side effect menagerie: bone pain. Neutropenia - neutrophil deficiency - is a side effect from chemotherapy, and so in response to this, Brendan gets a daily injection in order to attempt to keep his neutrophil count reasonable, healthy, and his immune system capable. This injection has it's own set of side effects however, which include the aforementioned bone pain - which Brendan describes feeling like a deep aching - arthritic. He has only felt it in his jaw and head, but Dr. Rose promises it will soon be dancing through his pelvis, hips, and femurs.
Brendan has been liberated of shaving for 10 days now - as the chemotherapy attacks the most rapidly growing hair first. The hair atop his head is thinning, and he said soon he will just shave it off and be done with it. Dr. Rose says his eyelashes will be the last thing to go - but that when they do, we'll have gotten the beast.
I hope he isn't just saying that.
Each time I talk to him, I want to ask if he has gone through another PET scan, just to see if it is shrinking - if the treatment is working. I never ask, because I assume that this is, of course, a foolish question. To try and visualize progress minutely along the way can't possibly be beneficial. I know it is just the desire - the requirement - to know that there is a justification for my little brother to be enduring all of this. That the thing inside of him is actually shrinking away.
I got a random email from mom a few days ago while I was down in Urbana for Danny's funeral. It was written in all capital letters (oh, mom) and had zero punctuation - which is actually rather appropriate: "I am doing fine most of the time every now and then I get little attacks of anger and frustration over the way chemo is affecting Brendan".
Because there is something wide eyed, desperate, and frantic about the way we all feel about this. We watch, and hear him go through this, but he only "complains" as much as he thinks is reasonable and never as much as he has the right to - or as much as anyone in his situation should.
He just...does it. Brendan talks to me about these shitty things as if they were adventures that oh, of course he faces. He conquers every day with an air of nonchalance and confidence. He swallows pills and pain and sweat and fear and nausea and the world in stride. Any time I ever hear the faintest quiver or hesitance in his voice, it is devoured. He does it because he has to - these are tasks and challenges to accomplish and overcome and he does them swiftly and with an apparent elegance.
The people's evidence 1A: a text message I received shortly after one of our conversations:
"Oh yeah and I forgot to tell you...Dr. Rose was wearing a tie with all the planets on it...and yes it had Pluto."
I sure don't miss those Neupogen shots. I was doing them for a few days after a few of the cycles of my first series of chemo, and then double-duty in preparation for a stem-cell harvest. I had never felt that style of pain before, and I hope not to again.
ReplyDeleteAnd the desire for more frequent updates on progress is shared by us all; how great would it be to see the state of things between each cycle? A time-lapse film? Charts and graphs that reassure patient and loved-ones that the chosen course is correct.
But the methods for measurement themselves usually carry the risk of causing health problems. By measuring too much we could affect the result!