2013.03.24: 6- More Chemotherapy

我与癌（6-继续化疗） 第三次化疗也按计划顺利完成。恢复周去查了血象，发现白细胞低于下限，有点担心，这是上两次没有发生的现象。电告E医生，他认为关系不大，到下次化疗还有一周，相信我自身的造血机制能完成此责，理由是我手术前他看这我的血象报告曾对我LG说，Your wife's blood counts in general is much better than you and me I believe. 一周后，我的血象正如E医生的预测，达标。之后的三次化疗与继而一年的巩固化疗，我的血象没用药均预期达标。 全家的生活又重新步入正规。妈妈负责三餐，爸爸负责卫生，LG负责采购和接送两闺女，两闺女负责准备自己的午餐并自觉完成回家作业，剩下我就只有吃喝玩乐啦。每天起床后，慢慢喝茶（现已改成先喝水，再喝茶），继而享用丰盛的早餐，可以是现做豆浆，杏仁浆，杂米粥或蛋饼。然后我们三人开始上屋顶的晒台边晒太阳边争上游，三人两副牌，每次我和妈妈会暗暗联合对付爸爸，因爸爸特会撒赖。挫败爸爸后，他总不认输，自然是明天接着干。午餐，午休后，当加州的阳光带着院子里翠竹的影子穿透窗帘懒散地洒落在床上，我起床，小闺女已跟着外公到家了。我吃剩的午餐是小女放学后最喜欢的点心之一。晚饭后，会看些电视就该睡觉了。这是我化疗两三天后典型的生活，自嘲是提前享受退休生活和爸爸妈妈一起变老。两三天内我的大块时间还是这床上度过。记得有一回，妈妈做好的午餐，我一看就没食欲，我甚至没尝试一点点，就又上楼上床。听见爸爸问妈妈，为什么小解放军连话都没一句就走了，妈妈答到，她连说话的力气都没有，我能看出她不喜欢，我再重做就是了。现在想起，真羞愧无比，就是我再无力，也不该对父母如此态度，在此检讨了。 LG在圣诞时送的一个大礼，竟耗费我们近一年的时间来完成，就是3千块的拼图。我对拼图之类在化疗前是既没兴趣，又没耐心。几次三番想开头都是只有想法，无行动。终于有一天我动手啦。我先是按色彩分組，慢慢呑吞开始之后，便一发不可收，午休后或睡觉前时间就全砸上面。妈妈会戴上她的老花镜，积极参与。爸爸就会深表同情地念叨，太难了，太难了，继续他慢悠悠地踱步。 有本书，名叫Tuesdays with Morrie，是东部的一位好友在我手术后寄来的礼物。当初我读完前言，心里还格登了一下，觉得推荐我还看这类书，似乎为时尚早。书很薄，放床头，就会顺手翻几页。慢慢就看上瘾了。书中许多人生观，我十分认同。尤其让我受益的是，我们无法预测死亡，但都有权选择如何坦然面对死亡的态度。 感谢她的礼物，使我变得更能放下,更易释怀。 2007年3月，历经千辛万苦，我终于让化疗次数从6减至0。虽然我的血象是化疗以来最差劲的，体重也由120磅减至100磅，但全家已不再象保护baby那样对待我了。然而哥哥的每日一电是必不可少，还特准时，嫂子的不间断鼓励，尤其是我确诊初期，帮我找到病友，使我不再孤单并充满希望。我侄女，哥嫂的闺女也在同年春季收到Yale大学录取通知书，并在秋季愉快入学。 我以为胜利在望，Ca125 也由手术前的1000 降到35（normal is 1 to 35).然而E医生的建议又让我辗转反侧，一筹莫展。

Cancer and Me (6 - More Chemotherapy) The third chemotherapy was also successfully completed as planned. The blood test during my recovery was a little worrisome, because my white blood cell count was below the lower limit - something we did not see the first two times. We contacted Doctor E, and he said he believed my hematopoietic system would accomplish this replenishing task, because before my surgery he had told LG in response to my blood report, “Your wife's blood counts in general are much better than yours or mine, I believe”. A week later my blood counts recovered, just as Doctor E had predicted. In the next three chemotherapy cycles as well as in the following year of consolidation chemotherapy, my blood counts maintained steady levels without the aid of medication. Family life slowly went back to normal. Mom was responsible for cooking, Dad responsible for cleaning, LG was responsible for the two girls, and the two girls were responsible for preparing their own lunch and doing their homework, leaving me only to eat, drink, and be merry! Every morning after getting up, I would sip tea (which changed to first sipping water, then sipping tea), followed by a hearty breakfast, which could be soy milk, almond paste, congee, or pancakes. Then the three of us began to soak up the sun on the roof terrace, playing cards (“Gain the Upper Hand”). The three of us would use two decks of cards, and every time Mom and I would secretly form an alliance against Dad, because he was a clever cheater. Even after Dad was defeated, he would never throw in the towel, carrying on the next game with more antics. After lunch and a nap, when the California sun brought with it the shadows of our bamboo courtyard and lazily cast itself upon my bed, I would get up, and my younger daughter would already be home with her grandfather. My leftovers from lunch were one of my daughter's favorite after-school snacks. After dinner and a little TV, it would be time for sleep. This was my typical day following the first two or three days after chemotherapy, and we joked that I was enjoying my retirement years early, growing old with Mom and Dad. For the first two or three days after chemo, I still spent most of my time in bed. I remember once I had no appetite to eat the lunch that my mother had made, so I went upstairs to go to bed without even tasting it. I heard my father ask my mother, “Why did she leave without even saying a word?” Mom answered, “She doesn’t even have the energy to speak; I could tell she didn’t like what I made, I’ll just make it again.” I’m so ashamed thinking back on it now: no matter how exhausted I was, I should never direct that kind of attitude toward my parents. One Christmas gift that LG gave me, which took us almost a year to finish,  was a 3000-piece puzzle. Prior to chemo, I neither had the interest nor the patience for puzzles. I tried many times but was unable to bring myself to start the puzzle, until finally one day I began. First, I grouped the pieces by color, and once I began this slow process, I couldn’t stop. I put all my efforts into this puzzle after my afternoon naps and before going to bed at night. Mom would put on her reading glasses and actively participate. Dad would say sympathetically, “It’s too hard, it’s too hard”, while continuing with his leisurely pace. After the operation, a friend on the East Coast gave me a book entitled Tuesdays with Morrie. At first when I read the preface, I felt a little strange: it seemed premature to recommend that I read a book like this. But the book was thin, and I kept it next to my bed, so I would turn a few pages now and then and slowly became hooked. I identified with the views on life of many of the people in the book. In particular, I benefitted from the idea that death is unpredictable, but we have the right to choose how to face death with a calm attitude. Thanks to her gift, I was much relieved and became much more accepting. In March 2007, after much hardship, I finally reduced my chemo cycles from 6 to 0. Though my blood counts were the worst they had been since I started chemo and my weight had fallen from 120 to 100 pounds, my family had stopped treating me like they were protecting a baby. But my brother’s critical daily phone calls, my sister-in-law’s constant encouragement, especially the hospital-mate friends she found for me in the early days of my diagnosis, allowed me to be no longer lonely and be filled with hope. My niece  (my brother’s daughter), received her acceptance letter to Yale University that same spring, and happily enrolled there that fall. I think that victory is in sight: my CA-125 levels have dropped from the pre-surgery 1000 to 35 (1 to 35 is normal). Yet Doctor E’s advice leaves me tossing and turning, unable to do anything.