[cancer] Heading into the third infusion

Tomorrow is infusion three of twelve. was here for several days earlier this week, visiting and generally being helpful. comes in later this evening (well after I sink into a Lorazepam-induced torpor) to be with me over the weekend. Dad is driving us to the infusion center in the morning.

Been a rough week in the lower GI and the associated sleep issues. Otherwise the side effects have been reasonable. Have gotten a fair amount of writing done, as well as other life activities.

In terms of struggling with myself, I am trying to manage an unexpected resistance to the Lorazepam-Imodium combo I seem to need to be able to sleep, at least sometimes. I don’t generally struggle with my need for medication. Lovastatin doesn’t feel like a character flaw to me. Omeprazole isn’t a moral failing. I can even handle the vague embarrassment of Viagra without flinching.

So why does an anti-diarrheal and a sleeping pill make me feel like a shameful failure? I spent some time with my therapist today unraveling this question. No good answers yet, but I think there’s two separate issues. Imodium always makes me feel like hell the next day. The prospect of taking it nightly for the next five months is frankly freaking me out. As for Lorazepam, it’s also an anti-nausea drug and an anti-anxiety drug. And I’m pretty resistant to psychoactives. That’s why I stopped experimenting with street drugs very early on, and why I’ve always been a very light drinker. I hate anything that takes the edge off my mind.

Guess what? Chemo blunts me in all kinds of ways. I’m not sure I haven’t focused some of those resentments on this particular med combo. In any case, I feel a bit of an idiot. Not done processing this one.

Another element requiring processing is the sense of dread I’ve had these past few days concerning tomorrow’s infusion. I was terrified before the first session. I was almost blas√© about the second session. Now I find myself dreading the time in the chair, the time on the pump.

This is not productive. Especially not with nine more sessions to go after tomorrow.

I am stronger than either my anxieties or my fears. I am also not so stupid as to think I can just be tough and swallow them whole. But boy, wrestling my myself isn’t the club sport I signed up for.