Image by califmom via Flickr
Bless ye Vicodin for easing the pain in his bones caused by the Neupogen shots o’ plenty. Shots he did get. A grand total of 8 Neupogen shots, plus the Neulasta shot, which is the equivalent of 10 Neupogen shots. The job of Neupogen and Neulasta is to stimulate the bone marrow into making neutrophils.
My husband does not cry. He didn’t cry when out babies were born. He didn’t cry when he dislocated his shoulder. He didn’t cry when his grandparents died. He’s not callous, he just doesn’t cry. This pain? It had him whimpering like a puppy. All. Night. Long.
Fortunately, he had an appointment with Dr. W on Monday. He planned to tell Dr. W the pain was “pretty bad.” I nearly punched him in the throat. I then helped him practice articulating just how bad the pain really was—on a scale of 1 to 10 (9); when you were brushing your teeth and bent over to spit (nearly passed out); while you were sleeping (could not sleep); as you were getting dressed (had to wear slip on shoes). Hell, I had time to park the car in the time it took him to walk to the building. He couldn’t move. Only his pride stopped him from using a wheelchair.
Vicodin. I gave him the maximum dosage when we got to the car. He asked if I was trying to give him too much. I told him to shut the fuck up. Forty minutes later, he said he could still feel the pain a little bit, but it wasn’t as bad. I told him to shut the fuck up and the next time I told him I knew what I was talking about regarding pain he needed to listen. Fucker. He only needed it for the next 12 hours or so, but he definitely needed it. A body in pain can’t rest or recover. Thick. Skull.
Good news: his white blood cell count and platelets are back up into safe ranges. He still has to be careful, but he should be able to avoid a blood transfusion and more Neupogen shots until the next round of chemo (which won’t happen until the first week of January).
Thank you all for keeping us in your thoughts and prayers. This is a much rockier road than last time. The cancer seems more aggressive, and this chemo regimen is ruthless. He’ll be going for a hearing test later this week to make sure one of the chemo drugs isn’t causing permanent damage. If so, the doctor will change the regimen for the next cycle. They want to kill the lymphoma, but don’t want a permanently deaf Bob.
It’s been harder to keep it together (physically and mentally), but dammit if our friends and family haven’t been here once again to wrap some duct tape around us just when we’re about to lose it.
Y’all make our socks go up and down. We love you.
And for those who keep asking about my nether regions, my second round of MRIs showed that I’m a normal degenerate (no more degeneration to my spine than they’d expect for my age). I have an appointment to see a neurologist on Monday to continue to pursue the mystery that is My Fucked Up Back. Until then, I hump my ice pack like a trouper. Or it humps me. Because, technically, it’s behind me. I’m not behind it.