Still hanging in there...

So I know you’ve all been waiting anxiously for the latest update on Eugene’s status—the little bastard isn’t dead yet, but we’re still working steadily towards it.  There were some questions about how he came to be named Eugene, and I wish I had a more exciting story to share than “my sister and I were joking about naming the tumor via text one day—I told her I was leaning towards ‘Carl’, she suggested ‘Eugene’, and that was it.”  Now you all know—and you’re welcome.  That kind of premeditated brilliance can only be stunningly magnificent.

Since my last update, I went through some pretty dark days.  The Maryland trip turned out to be quite an adventure, courtesy of my French brother and his special travel arrangements—we decided to take a little later flight out of Atlanta (and by “we decided” I mean “they gave our seats away because we didn’t leave for the airport early enough”).  So, TJ, Alex, and I had some quality airport time and then got to see the Pennsylvania/Delaware/Maryland countryside on our rental car (a roomy Mazda 2) voyage across the Delmarva peninsula to Ocean City.  It all builds character in the end—so what if we missed a day of the conference, lost Alex’s driver’s license somewhere along the way, and had to yell at a bunch of US Airways associates in the process of getting where we needed to be and back home again.  I ended up spending a significant portion of the conference in bed because Eugene was being an asshole and hosting what felt like it was a satellite performance of Riverdance on my spine and/or kidneys.  Many opioids were consumed, and not much seafood.  But I did still have the opportunity to see lots of friendly faces—the family of chicken doctors that I love.  It was worth the trip to get all of those hugs and well wishes, and the actual parts of the conference that I was able to endure were nice as well.

I struggled rather considerably on those days that I was feeling particularly crappy.  I had a bit of a mental block where I was really conflicted—like one side of my brain knew that I felt like scum, but there was another corner where part of my mind was resistant to admit it for fear of admitting weakness.  Those two parts of my brain were in the midst of quite the tumultuous debate, and I knew that it was making me into a crazy person that was less than fun to be around—so I did the only thing I knew to do at that point—I called my Uncle Junior.  Many of you know my uncle, and know the battles that he, himself, has won.  For those of you that don’t, this is one of my dad’s younger brothers—a man very near and dear to my heart—who has been an unwavering source of emotional and spiritual support.  It probably helps that he happens to be a minister of his own church, but I say he’s pretty awesome regardless of all that.  When I spoke to him (also interpreted as indecipherable blubbering via phone), he assured me that I was not admitting defeat by admitting that I didn’t feel well.  That He is strong when we cannot be, and that it is up to us to trust in Him for the path to healing and wellness.  Once I heard, understood, and accepted that, I found a new level of peace and was able to move on.  That’s not to say that I was walking around fearlessly—I remained terrified.  But it made things easier to get through.  We survived the trip, and upon our return to the great state of Georgia, chemo commenced.

Thanks to my Aunt Cyndie, I was the most styling and profiling chemo patient at Emory that day in my new chemo outfit.  We met with the doctor, talked about how Eugene was getting too big for his britches—outgrowing his blood supply, and essentially destroying himself before we even started the chemo.  We talked about how these were good signs that meant that he would be taking up the drugs like a crazy kid on Halloween night.  We talked about the little Riverdance performances that had been taking place regularly and got some heavier drugs involved—with plans in place to do some nerve killing.  I was pretty amped about all of that, and we headed on down for my first new infusion.  All I remember about that was taking some Benadryl and passing out for a few hours.  I woke up with about 20 minutes left to go, finished it out, and we were outta there.  We celebrated with some Pappasito’s enchiladas for dinner—my first real Tex-Mex experience since we left the mothership back in June—and it was magical.  Since then, it’s just been a battle with heartburn and having no appetite. 

Fast forward to today, and I still have no desire to eat on a regular basis—like not even cake and crap.  I just shovel food in because it’s necessary.  I’m constantly on what feels like the verge of exhaustion, and sleep has been somewhat challenging as we’re trying to change my seizure meds and get the dose right—slowly but surely.  I chopped my hair off so that I can donate it to a good cause, and I’m still getting accustomed to the whole short hair thing.  We’ve officially gotten the pain under control, and I haven’t had to take any pain meds or keep close confines with a heating pad in over a week—it’s been pure bliss.  I’m working on getting caught back up on classes and schoolwork—trying to keep my mind occupied with chicken doctoring—and counting down the days to fall break and Thanksgiving.  I need some Texas in my life.