3/10/21

 

         Once again, ‘mummy arm’ is typing with one hand, so ignore my mistakes, please.  I’m typing in Word and going to try and copy this into the blog, because I need to save it and it may be longer than usual.  I felt pretty good earlier this morning, but I’m going downhill a bit now and it’s nearly noon.  Around 4 p.m., this little machine on the back of my arm will inject me for 45 minutes and I’ll feel crappy.  It’s supposed to help increase my white blood count, so it’s really my friend.

         Yesterday, David asked me what I wanted for dinner and for the first time since this ordeal began, I knew what I wanted.  A small bowl of raisins, 2 slices of smoked Gouda, and egg drop soup.  He looked at me kind of funny, went into the kitchen, and made me exactly that.  It was yummy. Have I mentioned previously that he’s a ‘keeper’?

         I went to bed at 11:00 p.m. last night.  David fixed my body pillow beside me to try and find a way for me to sleep.  I can’t sleep on my mummy arm because my hand will swell, and the little machine is behind my right arm for the next 24 hours and I can’t lay on that side, either.  I haven’t been able to lay on my stomach for a decade, and when I lay on my back, my jaw relaxes, mouth opens, and I snore.  I wake myself up instantly.  As you can see, I have few options on chemo day.  Was still awake at 1:00 a.m.  Vowed to stop looking at the clock. 

Was awakened at 2:30 a.m. in excruciating pain.  Mummy hand was pounding.  I got up, went to the bathroom, peed, and checked my hand.  Bulbous is the term that comes to mind.  My fingertips were rotund and purple.  Well, actually more of a purple/blackish hue, if I’m being honest here.  I raised my arm above my head and kept it there.  The pain began to diminish, but I kept it up as long as my shoulder could accommodate me.

I turned off the light and returned to the bedroom, arm still in the air.  I noticed a flashing light and tried to find the source.  David has so many things plugged in, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps a flashing light meant something was sufficiently charged.  My mind then went to the thought of something overheating, and starting an electrical fire, since there were no flashing lights when I went to bed.  Please cut me some slack here and remember I have Chemo Brain….

I found his running thingy, wireless headphones, cable tv box, etc. all lit up, but not flashing.  The neighbor’s obnoxious garage light beams through our bedroom window every night, all night, but no flashing there.  I thought perhaps the solar lights in the flower beds were giving up the ghost for the night and may be blinking like they do when they turn on each evening.  The blinking light seemed to be coming from nowhere, but everywhere I looked I could see it – sometimes dull, sometimes bright.  I looked and worried for a solid 15 minutes, then decided to try and view it from David’s side of the room.

As I walked past my full-length mirror, I took a step back.  And then I saw it.  It was me.  I was the source.  It was that stupid little machine on the back of my arm.  I could not actually see it, but the reflection in the mirror told me enough.  Out loud, I said “I’m an idiot”.  I was afraid I’d awakened David, but I didn’t.  Go ahead and laugh now.  I told David about my adventure this morning and he threw back his head and laughed his ass off.  He told me to put it on my blog.

Ahhh, but the nighttime adventure doesn’t end there.  I went to the den and settled into a recliner to try and get back to sleep in a position that wouldn’t turn my hand into a throbbing nightmare.  I got my little pink blanket nearby and stacked up pillows beside me to raise my arm so hopefully the fluid would drain back to my torso, rather than my fingertips.  As I settled into the recliner, a ballistic missile struck the middle of my seroma (painful pocket of fluid in left sister), bringing tears to my eyes.  Definition of ballistic missile on couch: sharp corner of pillow.  I settled back in after rearranging the missiles and covered with my little pink blanket, which is extremely thin and approximately 30 years old (hence soft and perfect).  OMG.  The friggin’ flashing light was beaming through the blanket!  This can’t be happening!  I got out of the recliner again, switched blankets, rearranged the missiles (again), and climbed back in.  It’s now close to 3:30 a.m. and I’ve slept a hour, at best.  I laid there till 5:30 or so and slept till 6:30, when my hand blew up again.  I gave up. 

So, with 2 hours of sleep under my belt to begin day, I’m hoping I can nap this afternoon.  Chemo day is rough with double-trouble on both arms….