Friday was cool and cloudy. My fatigue was in control. i slept a lot. I understand that the fatigue is one result of the chemotherapy, and that the purpose is so that I will have healthy, cancer-free days ahead. But I feel sometimes that these are days I am losing. I don't have energy for the projects I usually do in the spring, nor the ones I imagined I would be doing coming out of Covid isolation. Today feels like I am the weakest I have been following the treatments. So I rest, more than I ever have.

I did notice yesterday that the honeysuckle shrub is blooming next to the pool fence. This is not the aromatic honeysuckle vine that will bloom later and carries so many memories of spring in Illinois. Still, the blooms are everywhere announcing warmth. Some day maybe I'll see them and smell them when I am swimming. If I have the energy. Floating in the water wouldn't be bad.

After two cycles of chemotherapy, I am learning that the first week after the infusion is wholly given to fatigue. My thoughts are clouded, I move slowly, I have no appetite, the bed calls to me several times a day.

But there are moments, like this evening near our dinner time, when the sunlight filters through the trees of our western border and illuminates the dogwoods. Of course, I notice, and have to take my camera outside. I forget the cancer. I ignore the fatigue. And I just appreciate what I can see. And the birds are singing, singing a hymn to the evening light.

Then this is a good place to be. The iris began blooming this week. This particular iris bloomed three times last year, with the third time in December.

The rhythm of the bloom parallels my chemotherapy pattern. I feel relatively good before each treatment. And then I have ten days of fatigue, mouth sores, more hair loss, increased vulnerability to infection. It is challenging for me not to see these days as loss. And then I gain strength, preparing for the next round. Ready to bloom.

I still find it incredible that I have had two different forms of cancer within a year. 

Each bloom signals there are possibilities and recoveries.

The second chemotherapy treatment was completed Monday. And despite my impatience about getting started, the infusion was largely uneventful. The nurse even advised that I crunch on ice chips during the administration of "the red devil".

The magic blinking green firefly attached to my waist dispensed the dose of Neulasta yesterday evening. Other than the daily dose of prednisone, the medications of the second round are completed.

Now begins the obstacles following each chemotherapy treatment.

My first obstacle is realizing that chemotherapy and radiation will occupy most of my spring and summer. My last chemotherapy should be May 31, if there are four.

I imagine radiation will begin in July.

Another obstacle is lots of fatigue, which all in all, is the lesser of side effects. And is the product of the chemotherapy working. Unfortunately, it is just an extension of the isolation we practiced for a year before we received our vaccinations in February.

The other obstacle is my vulnerability to infection because of the destruction of white blood cells.

But there is a way through this.

Just as the rocks loom in Acadia National Park, there is a path around them. The obstacles do not block the way to my healing. Just one step at a time.

This is my Neulasta Day, for the second time. This evening the little marvel pictured below will dispense medication during a 60 minute time span that will stimulate my white blood cell production. Three weeks ago the little machine, attached near my waist, began blinking it's little green light and made a ticking sound. That first evening, it was just another one of the mysteries that accompanied my chemotherapy. But I have come to realize that it is essential for my recovery.

Created just 20 years ago, this medication and its automated delivery system will help my body develop healthy white blood cells to replace the cancerous ones that were dangerous to my health.

I am so grateful to physicians and researchers and scientists who are dedicated to eradicating cancer.

Yesterday, prior to my treatment, Dr. Thompson said the bone marrow biopsy was negative which was great news.

And to those who read yesterday's blogpost, I ate a whole peanut butter sandwich this time!

Today is the second long day of chemotherapy. I am scheduled to be at Tennessee Oncology for six hours. 

The last time I could not distract myself from what was happening. I took my Kindle, two other books, and a notebook. And a peanut butter sandwich.

I did not open the books nor the Kindle nor the notebook.

I ate half of the peanut butter sandwich.

This time I'd rather think pleasant thoughts and consider beauty,

and rest in God's hands, the support of prayer partners, and the care of my medical team.

This photo, with a watercolor effect, is the wild columbine in front of our home.

Eugene Peterson's The Message renders a portion of Psalm 4: "Why is everyone hungry for more? 'More, more,' they say. 'More, more.' I have God's more-than-enough, more joy in one ordinary day."

Judy and I have made a practice to name our blessings each night. Some nights, she does it for both of us when I am so weary, noticing what had brought joy to us during the day. Truly, I am...

Blessed.

Content.

Thankful.

Joy filled.

Healing.

Grateful.

Happy.

Loved.

The image below, that I have shared before, is from the old Chain of Rocks bridge (old route US 66) spanning the Mississippi River. I entitled it "Unexpected Joy." Do you see it? Do you have it?

My second chemotherapy treatment is in 2 days, Monday. I think I am three weeks wiser. At least when it comes to this specific combination of ten medications and how my body responds, I am three weeks wiser. I still cannot recite the list, nor can I spell their names if I hear them read aloud, nor can I even pronounce them correctly. Still, I think I am three weeks wiser.

I am no longer worried about how tired I will be, not as much as I feared. I am far more vulnerable to infections that first week after treatment than I realized before. I already have some medications that could be necessary for side effects I did not have and for those that I did have. 

I have more hope than three weeks ago. Green is, indeed, growing in all the cracks.

And I have a greater sense of a vast network of prayers and encouragement for which I know that I am embraced with grace.

And I am three weeks closer to being cured.