Thanksgiving comes and goes. Ordinarily it is my favorite celebration. Somehow we don’t feel very festive this year. Our friends Mike and Janine already have family plans off-island, so we are on our own in their beautiful home. Though we have been invited to spend it with some other island friends, we feel the need to be on our own instead.

The quiet time is good for us. I roast an organic chicken with carrots and make mashed potatoes. Even though I don’t eat meat, only fish, I always acquiesce and have turkey on Thanksgiving. This chicken is a fine substitute, as a turkey is too big.

We give thanks for all our blessings and enjoy the meal together.

 

Knowing that Greg’s first radiation and chemo are right around the corner, we are nervous. Fear is part of it too, and not knowing exactly what it will feel like makes Greg apprehensive. Is it going to hurt? Will he have claustrophobia in the mask that he has to wear in the radiation machine? Will the chemo affect him right from the start?

It feels like a gas pedal is stuck and we’re speeding down the highway without brakes. It’s all happening without our control. Not good for a couple of control freaks.

The form-fitted mask is finished, his PET scan has been done, and his chest port and his G-tube are in place. The PET showed “activity” on his thyroid gland, mandating a biopsy. Another little procedure, but it turned out normal/benign. Whew.

This is the mask he wears during radiation.

I love my husband and am a nurturer at heart; I’m not afraid to be a care-giver. I enjoy learning how to use the gastronomy tube (G-Tube): how to clean the tube itself, keep his tummy area clean, tape the dangling part onto his hairy stomach, administer the so-called food (Boost…yuck) via syringe, and how, as an alternative, feed him that yucky stuff using a pump and hanging the bag of Boost on a pole so that it can trickle in. It’s not that difficult, but it’s important to  regulate the pump, and to avoid germs while working through the process.

 

We won’t need to go through this G-Tube feeding rigamarole until he has trouble maintaining nutrition orally, so for now all we do is keep it clean by putting a couple syringes full of water through it daily. It’s not easy for Greg to accept this foreign contraption as a way of life. “It’s gross,” he tells me. Of course he’s right. It’s gross.

The first day of treatment arrives: December 5, 2016.

We rise and shine early to give ourselves plenty of time. Being punctual is of major importance to us all the time, but it is even more important today. Coffee is first on our list. The adrenaline I hate so much is already coursing through my veins. Adding a little caffeine will make it worse, but coffee is our lifeline right now. Neither of us can eat.

As we’re ready to leave we run through our check list: ferry passes, cancer information binder, protein bars, Isabela (our dog), dog leash, water for us and Isabela, coffee, books, yarn and crochet hooks (I’ve got to keep busy), jackets, mittens, hats, and our notebook. We also make sure to bring a special drawing done by a young girl, Lilly, who is the daughter of our friends, Sean and Dori. It’s a lovely illustration of the ocean and has the name of our little pueblo, Pescadero, on it. Greg wants me to take his photo with the drawing while getting his treatment. This way we can show her how much it means that she created it for him.  He considers it his talisman, serving him with power. He’s sweet like that.

The ferry ride today is a blur, but I get out of the car and go up to the passenger deck to get a photo as we travel to “the other side” as we call it. This is the first of 35 daily trips (Monday through Friday) for Greg’s cancer treatment. The first of seven chemo treatments, in addition to radiation, is in two days.

Treatment begins!