Hair today. Gone May 5th.

I wish I'd been a fly on the wall on the final day of his first round of chemo, when the Chemo Nurse warned The Ex that his hair would fall out soon -- and not just the hair on his head; all his hair, everywhere. Here a clump, there a clump, everywhere! His hair! There. And There. And There. And there.

Suddenly, he remembered The Cruise. Elegant, top-tiered suite with a balcony. Formal dinners.
Rich white linens and shimmery gold spreads. And his hair.

"When is your cruise? May 3rd-7th?" she asked, as she did some calculations on her hair-fall-out-ulator. "Your hair should begin to fall out on May 5th, mid-cruise," she predicted with as-yet-unknown accuracy. "You might want to shave it, or cut it short before then," she advised.

You could've blown me away with a feather. I had no idea that the date of the loss of the hair on your head could be so clinically analyzed!

I guess losing the hair on his head is not that big a deal. His father and brother both wore skin as hairdos. He is a little concerned about his eyebrows and mustache, but not enough to deter his enthusiasm for The Cruise. Come hair or high water, The Cruise is on!

I wasn't around for his three days of chemo treatment. Our son stayed with him while I was away on business, and, in hindsight, probably didn't need to be here.

By then, The Ex was mostly recovered from rad treatments. To look at him, no one could ever guess the extent of his cancer. But I did not know how those three days of chemo treatment would be, and I didn't want The Ex to be alone -- just in case. I'm just as happy that our son did not have to be a nurse during his visit with his dad.

I returned late in the day of his third treatment. It was a little strange, leaping into my regular life for a few days and now back into my caregiver life. Like being on two trampolines, side by side. Jumping on this one in one way for a bit, and then flipping over into that one to jump another way. Downright weird.

The drug log had been hardly touched, but I just turned the page and started a new day. No going back now. But now, there were new meds on the menu and I had to learn which did what and for how long, before I felt fully empowered to assume caregiving duties.

That night, he didn't eat much, but he didn't get sick, either.

That first day after chemo, he was moving pretty slowly -- perhaps from nausea meds. He slept a lot that day, but in different locations. It was like he was exhausted, drained, and too tired to get comfortable anywhere. He tried to eat nibbles of apples and cheese, and later some oatmeal, but he really wasn't hungry. He was just uncomfortable.

Whenever that happens (when the patient can't name the exact source of discomfort, yet knows he doesn't feel well), I try to change something in his environment; fluff a pillow, get a heating pad, turn on a fan, add a blanket, serve ice water or warm tea, turn on the tv, apply lotion to patient's face, hands, and feet --- something.

I don't know if this behavior is just me, anxiously flitting about to ease discomfort in all the ways I know how, or if I learned it from my own past caregivers, or maybe even if it's something leftover from one of my past lives.

Wherever I got this idea, I am glad to have it. It means that when someone is suffering, there is ALWAYS something you can do to help. You just have to be creative sometimes.

He didn't eat or move around much that first day post-chemo, but was able to push fluids. I tried to warn him that the worst might be yet to come.

On the second day, meds now on track, he felt a little better, but said he hadn't slept well the night before. And still I reminded him, there might be more ill yet to come.

On the third day after his final chemo treatment, he showered and dressed and we went to Sam's, one of his favorite things to do. We didn't need anything from Sam's other than a destination, but we did find a couple of good buys and returned home, feeling tired but happy that at least one weekend ritual was complete -- in spite of chemo, in spite of cancer, in spite of nagging fatigue.

On the fourth day after his final chemo treatment, he was up with the sun! Sipping coffee while reading the paper at his desk! We decided to run some errands, and later, we went to lunch at a landmark restaurant near the beach.

Wait. Lower case letters don't do justice to that statement.

Do you hear me? On the fourth day after his final chemo treatment, WE WENT TO LUNCH AT A LANDMARK RESTAURANT NEAR THE BEACH!!!! After this much time since his last chemo treatment, I finally began to believe that we'd already been through the worst of it -- and compared to radiation sickness, it wasn't bad at all. Except for that hair thing.

We had a lovely lunch in the loud and rowdy beach bar. We couldn't talk much, but the food was not awful, and it was a beautiful day with sweet, salty breezes to keep bugs and germs away from my patient.

After that, we went to visit one of The Ex's bachelor friends who had wanted us to see his garden. And after THAT, we went home smiling, pleased with our afternoon.

At one point, The Ex said he didn't feel nauseated, but he just didn't feel right. Then I remembered the Oxycontin.

He'd been using that for so long, and he hadn't had any in the past day or so as his bone pain has not been bad at all. But, I know Oxycontin is addictive, and I wondered if that might be the problem. After we discussed it, he agreed to take one of his lower dosages, 40 mcg., and in about 30 minutes he reported feeling MUCH better.

Today, The Ex is back at work! He had a breakfast bar and coffee for breakfast, and off he went! Just another normal day in the life of The Ex. You know him right? He's that Stage IV - SCLC guy who was given 3-6 months to live (Feb 26), the one with mets in his bones, adrenals and lymphs; the one who shouldn't be able to stand, much less walk... the one who's out working now, fixing office machines. Yep, he's the one.

If you're on a cruise to the Bahamas May 3-7, he'll be the guy with a big hat and no eyebrows, a martini in one hand and a great big smile on his face.