drug holiday, yay!
It's such a tiny little pill. A wee doll-sized tablet, a warm and happy yellow, popped out from a silver blister pack. It's the drug the doctors say will keep the cancer from coming back. It's a pill I've taken every day since September.
And near as I can tell, that little pill was doing a fine job of turning me into a rickety old lady.
One week into my drug holiday, and already I feel more like myself. My energy has improved: I actually cleaned my apartment, buzzed through four loads of laundry, changed the bed, did piles of dishes.
My body has improved: my joints don't creak and complain when I stand up or get out of bed. I can take stairs like a normal person, not one halting step at a time.
Also, my body has improved in that- really, no discreet way to put this- my pussy feels like maybe it actually belongs to me again. The dormant libido stirs, waking up from its icy exile.
My mood has improved: I no longer resent having to wake up and put on clothing. The future feels interesting and hopeful instead of bleak and hopeless. I... want to be here.
We'll see if those ten unwanted kilos that showed up last fall will be a bit more willing to leave now.
In two weeks, they're starting me on a new drug in the same class. A month after that, my oncologist checks in with me to see how that's working out.
Here's the thing. At what point does prevention trump quality of life? If that new drug is just as bad as the old one, chances are I'll take the not-recommended option of going without. I'd rather take my chances while feeling like myself, than plod safely through life hobbled, heavy, and chemically castrated.
And near as I can tell, that little pill was doing a fine job of turning me into a rickety old lady.
One week into my drug holiday, and already I feel more like myself. My energy has improved: I actually cleaned my apartment, buzzed through four loads of laundry, changed the bed, did piles of dishes.
My body has improved: my joints don't creak and complain when I stand up or get out of bed. I can take stairs like a normal person, not one halting step at a time.
Also, my body has improved in that- really, no discreet way to put this- my pussy feels like maybe it actually belongs to me again. The dormant libido stirs, waking up from its icy exile.
My mood has improved: I no longer resent having to wake up and put on clothing. The future feels interesting and hopeful instead of bleak and hopeless. I... want to be here.
We'll see if those ten unwanted kilos that showed up last fall will be a bit more willing to leave now.
In two weeks, they're starting me on a new drug in the same class. A month after that, my oncologist checks in with me to see how that's working out.
Here's the thing. At what point does prevention trump quality of life? If that new drug is just as bad as the old one, chances are I'll take the not-recommended option of going without. I'd rather take my chances while feeling like myself, than plod safely through life hobbled, heavy, and chemically castrated.