I'm blogging from eastern Washington state tonight. I've been here since Wednesday evening. My older sister, LaVanita, has breast cancer and I came to be with her for her first 2 chemo treatments. My Mom and younger sister Voyla will drive up here next Saturday, and my Mom will stay til after chemo, surgery, and radiation.
Everywhere we go - the grocery store, restaurant, doctor appointments - people comment on how much we look alike. Voyla and I get it sometimes (we both live in Utah), but nothing like LaVanita and I get. She is at least 4-5" shorter than me, and has more reddish hair. We even sound alike! When we were children, people often thought we were twins. We're 2 years apart, but she was always small, so we were very close to the same size until high school.
The first chemo treatment was scary, and even after attending "Chemo Education," we weren't sure what to expect. We each packed enough books, magazines and projects to fill several weeks, even though we were only going to be there 4-5 hours. We did almost nothing. It would seem that putting such powerful chemicals into a body would be much more dramatic. . . but there was no music of doom, no solemn march, or soap opra music. Just the click of IV machines and low tones of the nursing staff. Every single medication was accompanied by simple, direct explanations by the nurses. For the final 2 infusions, the nurse gowned up and wore protective eyewear; she injected the IV tubing manually with a clear red and deadly potion. Each dose is double calculated for patient surface area (a combo of height and weight) and a pair of nurses double check each other. LaVanita has a port in her chest, for ease of infusion. She felt nothing. This did not stop us from eating baked beans and hush puppies from Miz Dee's BBQ. After all, they only have hush puppies on Fridays. We couldn't afford to miss it.
So, here we are, almost 72 hours later and all she is feeling - and has felt - is a tiredness and some aching. Rumor has it that nausea sets in at about the 72 hour point. We are waiting, and hoping that she will be one of the "lucky" ones who doesn't have the violent reactions. It's hard to feel lucky when you have lost your husband to a sudden stroke 3 years ago, and now have Stage III breast cancer. And you are only 57.
LaVanita's daughter Punkin and her granddaughter Belly came Friday night from Seattle. We talked and visited and caught up on everything. We keep up through her mom but it feels good to connect, even if it is only at the dramatic points of our lives. LaVanita's son, Popeye, will be here in the early morning hours for a quick 24 hour visit. He also lives in Seattle.
I know we look old on the outside, but I still feel like a kid, giggling and talking into the night, long after we should be asleep. It is hard to believe that we are the grandparents and commiserating about hot flashes and aching joints, and bragging about grandchildren.
But wait! There is more news! In Utah, Sarah was quite ill this morning and had contractions. She went to the hospital, where they did blood tests, gave her fluids, monitored her for awhile and then sent her home. Unfortunately, this evening she was running a temperature. She is almost 37 weeks (see baby ticker), so the baby is nealry full-term. Her projected delivery date is June 30; actual due date of July 7. Thanks Kate, Jenn and Dan for pitching in today, and tomorrow for Sarah's regular OB appointment. Meanwhile, Mel is in Idaho with his dad and sister. Grandpa is 91 and on home hospice. Not five minutes after talking to Sarah, Mel called and said his dad had had a small stroke. Tonight, he seems to be mostly recovered from any lingering effects.
In other news: After making a defiant stand at work for Family Medical Leave to come to Yakima, I found out AT THE AIRPORT that I wasn't actually covered at all under FML for a sibling. Oh well. For now, I'm going to do my Scarlett O'Hara thing and "think about it tomorrow." Or next week.
Note the cute Grammy Jammies from Grammy R.
