Cage Fighting

Scott loves sports.  I have watched them with him all of our lives it seems.  The one sport we both loathe on levels of sinking depths is "cage fighting" - I mean - it's not even really a sport.  It's more like a back street brawl.  Michael Vick went to jail for some years for putting two males into a cage to tear each other apart - yet because we have a different species - more intelligent "man" - it's ok.  And legal. 

Maybe it's because I never understood it.  On our way home Wednesday night, Scott noted that something was different with my drug cocktail this time - and I usually take note when Scott says things like that, because he has learned to become what most care-takers become - "watchers", "barometers", the ones that have not studied the disease for 13 years, but they know their subjects, and know when they change.  They watch and note all things medically different that might be needing attention.

But I basically just looked at him sideways and growled.

He said "I bet they upped your IV steroids today for the carbo".   I muttered mass insanities that are probably really bad words in other languages, and statements of disbelief, but my body was saying otherwise..... 

He was right.  

On Thursday, instead of having my nice Thursday "steroid-bump" - I was hurting and not feeling good and, and, just feeling plain old mean.....

Scott was home Friday to take care of me, and noted that they had not sent home the extra steroids for me, and that they were not at the pharmacy.  I didn't want them anyways, so was playing like "maybe that's not what they meant after all", trying to hedge around the whole issue.  Scott reminded me of the last carbo side effects and how each organ in my body felt like it was going to literally burst - including my brain - on a Saturday when there are no doctors to call.

He reminded me that "they said" that the ladies in this study were taking their "carbo-hits" on days 4 and 5 - Saturday and Sunday.  I think after the last one, he was desperate to not be alone with me in that kind of pain and that kind of situation again.

The reminder did turn me down a notch and I took a few moments to reflect on that sensation of my last carbo-blast-of-hell week; then picked up my phone and called my doctor.   Turns out they had increased my IV steroid dose on Wednesday.  And worse, they really wanted me on them Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  They might even have said "Monday", but my brain refused to hear.  

I could see the writing on the wall - I was going to be taking some oral-dose-extra-steroids.  

Scott went to the pharmacy and picked up the tablets.  I took two on Friday afternoon and was hit with a tremendous headache, and cried and held my head and cried some more.  He couldn't touch me.  He couldn't talk me through it. 

As we had been instructed, Scott quickly doubled up my anti-nausea which is also a controlled drug that is anti-anxiety and helps you sleep - thinking - hoping - this would slow down the steroid effect. 

It didn't touch it.

I was juicing.   I suddenly had flashes of those cage fighters standing outside the cages, ready to jump in and kill or be killed.  I think I understood them on a little different level now. 

I wanted to rattle the cage to get rid of this rage.  I wanted to rattle the cage to do some damage.  I wanted to rattle the cage and be rid of the pain.

I so should not do steroids.  

There was only one thing to do - as sick as I was - as much as my head was killing me - I got on the treadmill.  And ran.  On carbo week.  I cried as I was running, but I ran and it started to work itself out a little bit.  I did a mile and a half - which if you have seen my physical shape of late - is quite a feat.  I can breath better when I run on steroids - I have done my own homework and checked that out the last couple of weeks, knew that to be true, so part of my little bit of thinking brain was wanting to hold back just a little - just because I could finally breathe and run didn't mean I should kill myself. 

But I had to rattle that cage.  

It was the only thing to turn it down.   In another hour, I did a DVD "Bootcamp" workout with Keegan.  I was afraid of running my blood cells down with all the activity - especially during carbo week - but the steroids were killing me.  I cried almost the whole workout time.  This was not a nice jog to 'search' for endorphins to fill my brain and make me "feel" better. 

It was a pure purge. 

From the smell of me, it seemed more like the pit of hell had opened up and all the putrid chemo smells and maybe even some of the ugly cancer smells were sweating out of each pore.  One by one.  I took a shower, scrubbed and went to bed.  Didn't sleep, but was in bed shaking.

Saturday I begged Scott down to just one steroid pill, and I think he was fearful enough after Friday to agree, so it went a little better.  I did some treadmill, did some cardio, then covered up in every blanket in our house and rested.

I felt better.  Not good, but this was carbo-hell-Saturday, and comparatively speaking, I felt better.  

Then I had a great idea -- I needed socks.  I told Scott I was embarrassed on chemo days by my sock collection, so he looked at me very warily, and we decided to try the outlet mall, as they have more fresh air moving in and out of the stores (read less recycled germy air) and was less likely to be busy with germy customers.

And we went.

They laugh when I cannot remember some things at the hospital and call it "chemo-brain-fog".  There might have been a lot of that going on at that moment, but the steroids had cleared my brain enough that I could think well on one issue - socks.  

We got ready.  I put on makeup.  I was rent and tired and fatigued, but also had enough steroid juice in me to drive this idea down the road a bit. 

In the car, we kept tapping each other and saying "we are not going any-where's near a cancer center - we are going to buy socks."......

We kept tapping each other and saying - this is "carbo-hell-week" and we are sneaking out of the house on Saturday night.

I got the socks. 

Cage fighter or not, steroids and my body do not mix well, but they appear to be the necessary "suppression" that my body has to have to allow it to absorb the carbo. 

It is interesting to me that if I had not taken the steroids, I would not have been standing, walking, going out.  They were both suppressing and uplifting my bodily reactions to pure poison, and correct or not, that's what they did - they gave me the ability to go on - albeit a little oddly and awkwardly when I should have been smashed in bed. 

It's kind of  a cover-up of sorts, but maybe what we should be more about here on this earth.  Using the steroids in the right ways - not to kill or hurt or maim, but to maybe somehow suppress our very soul's response to blood and guts hurt and pain enabling us to be able to endure it, and all the while give strength to continue to walk when we shouldn't even be upright. 

We do walk in a world full of poison.