and more pills

After six months of only Avastin, the doctors cleared mom to once again take Temodar. She would be taking a low daily dose of 80mg. We began Monday night, and Tuesday she woke up with a pink, swollen face. Nearly two days later the reaction hadn't subsided and the doctors have started her on a steroid. We are, of course, not taking the Temodar.

She's extremely disappointed. In her mind, Temodar is a sort of wonder drug. It was the first anti-cancer drug she began taking after her diagnosis and resection, and we saw shrinkage of the tumor. After a few months on both the Temodar and an experimental drug from Eli Lily, she was hospitalized with pneumonia. At first they thought it was an infection, but eventually realized it was a drug-induced pneumonitis--one of the drugs had caused the reaction. Since the Lily drug was still in testing we all hoped it was that and that, eventually, she could get back on Temodar. After this past week, however, it seems that it wasn't the Lily that was the problem.

In short: cancer sucks. Being allergic to the proper chemotherapies double sucks.



Image: Beverly Fishman's "Pill Spill," installation, 2011.

growth

We had an MRI scheduled for this past Tuesday, and on Wednesday the images confirmed my suspicion, that mom's cancer had grown. The images showed growth by a few millimeters at several nodes, or whatever they're called, as well as a new area of growth. Certainly explains her behavior. She took the news surprisingly well, though I think a lot of that might have been her confusion. So we'll begin Temodar again, which she stopped when she was hospitalized for pneumonitis. Since March her only cancer treatment has been Avastin.

She is still confused about cars, houses, and me. While I was still asleep this morning she left the house. She's gone on a few walks before, which we've told her aren't safe. She could get lost, hit by a car, mugged, etc. I woke up to a phone call from my grandmother, whose golf friends had seen my mom wander across the course nearby. I drove up and down the streets. The sheriff sent a car out to help look. I got her on the phone a few times, but she has so little focus that she couldn't tell me where she was. About forty minutes after she left the house I found her. She was wearing black wool--it was 95 degrees outside. She was covered in grass clippings. I took her inside and she passed out on the sofa.

In an ideal world we'd find a great assisted living place nearby that magically paid for itself. I'd pack up the house and sell. I'd get a cheap apartment near downtown and return to some sense of independence. I could work part-time again and spend the rest of my time with mom at the facility. Maybe I'd start writing my thesis and finish my MA. Yeah, that'd be nice.

Instead, we're increasing the Risperdal, hoping it helps with her confusion and delusions. At night I take all the keys out of the deadbolts so that she can't open any exterior doors while I'm asleep. Last night I slept for nine hours and it was glorious; I only woke up twice to check and make sure she was still in the house.



Image: Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World," 1948.