Life is a Squeezebox

For the last few months, my life has contracted and expanded more times per minute than a squeezebox.

I'll never forget the day that Paula dropped me off at home after my first week-long hospital stay. I was delighted to be home again, but I couldn't get over how suffocatingly small my world felt. I had given up my job, cut back on my volunteer activities, couldn't garden and wasn't sure how physically active I could be. I sat there thinking, "What do I do now?"

Just a week before (I'm reminded from an earlier blog entry) I had hosted a party for more than 90 friends, selected paint colors and window coverings and coordinated the painting and installation, expedited a second opinion through MD Anderson, and tied up thousands of loose ends at my job.

Of course, that sinking "What do I do now?" feeling didn't last long. My prior life had contracted, but, as much as I hated to admit it, my energy level began to shrivel as well. At the same time, there was more room for friends and family, social activities and an obsession with food. My life was full.

This went on through each round of Hyper CVAD. My energy level would contract and then quickly expand and my activities would go through the same shrinking and growing process.

Today my emotional and physical energy far outstrip my activity levels. I'm looking for new challenges and stimulation. For the first time, I'm feeling restless.

But this feeling won't last long. There's talk that I'll do another round of Hyper CVAD if I successfully harvest enough stem cells. After that, I'll go through two weeks of out-patient radioimmunotherapy. And once I'm in the hospital for my stem cell transplant , I'll receive a mega-dose of chemo that will shrink my blood counts down to nearly zero. Until the transplant brings those levels up, my life will revolve around a small hospital room, my laptop and immediate family members who are allowed to visit.

After a few weeks, my blood counts and energy level will start expanding again, and I'll no doubt curse the smallness of my world. But that world will once again expand.

Expand, contract; expand, contract; expand, contract. It's the rhythm of life of a cancer patient.