It's All Relative

 I'm always amazed at how quick my mind feels on good days. Chemo and its after effects can cast a mostly opaque film over my mental state. And when that veil is lifted, there's a crispness of thought, a boost of mental energy. It's a great feeling like when you wake up clear headed after being dragged down by cold symptoms for a week.

For both round 3 and round 4, I had  figured out how to keep any nausea at bay until the danger has been washed out to sea. The routine these past two cycles was pretty much the same. In the first few days following the chemo, I felt pretty much 100% -- or so I thought -- with the only issue being the occasional back and joint ache courtesy of the Neulasta, a white blood cell booster that is released into me 24 hours after chemo. In full disclosure, the back pain freaked me out when it came in round 2 given the history of where this whole thing began and I had a moment of panic that the lymphoma was fighting back. But that was before the clean scans. So when the back pain cropped up, I took a few acetaminophin and carried on.

By day 5, as the prednisone (steroids) end, I start to get a little fatigue and that carries through Sunday and Monday. But it's not routine altering fatigue - maybe I sleep a little longer, but I still get up, walk the dog, and go to work thinking all is fine.

Then I wake up Tuesday and realize that my legs don't hurt when I walk up the stairs; that conversations flow more smoothly; and thinking doesn't feel like I'm looking through a pair of filthy  glasses. If I never cleaned those glasses, I probably wouldn't even have known that my vision was clouded.

It's all relative.

That's the theme this week. Four weeks from Monday, if all goes well, I'll be getting my central line placed, followed by the collection of my stem cells. All that stands in the way now are a gazillion tests, including a PET/CT scan and a bone marrow biopsy this week. I don't think I can say with all honesty that I'm looking forward to the transplant, but I'm not fearing it the way I might have a year, or even a few months ago. For years I thought that I had avoided the harder of the chemo regimens. When I had Bendamustine-Rituxan back in 2012-2013, I was relieved that I didn't have to go through R-CHOP. But now having gone through four rounds of R-CHOP, it doesn't feel any worse than B-R. My hope is that my ability to tolerate an effective R-CHOP treatment is a predictor of my ability to tolerate the "conditioning" as they call the 6 days of in-patient chemo I'll get as part of the process.

Random photo of our dog, Rocco,
for no particular reason other than
 I don't like posting without any photos 

So much of anxiety is tied up in the unknown. On lymphoma Facebook groups, I always see questions from survivors about what to expect from this procedure or from this treatment. And one of the most reassuring notes I had during this treatment was from someone in one of those groups who had almost the identical disease transformation experience, and who shared her experience with R-CHOP. It demystified it, and between that and the experience of a round of treatment, it made subsequent rounds easy.

I think that's why my nurse spends so much time going over - repeatedly - the steps that are involved in the stem cell transplant process. Day by day, she's reviewed what it may be like and how we will get from here to there. She's not sugar coating it, but she reviews it with a sense of confidence, experience, and calmness. It makes me feel that while it may not be easy, my team will  be prepared to deal with whatever challenges come our way.  After all, as my nurse says, I'm young. But then, that too, is relative.