FOLFIRI FURY

 Folfiri is destroying any chance of long lasting peace in this house. 

The new chemotherapy and immunotherapy regimen Matt is forced to tolerate, is intolerable. If I thought the original regimen in the first six months had taken a toll, well in my defense I was a newbie. I didn’t want to think it was going to get worse. Though I knew it could. 

As an advocate, and comrade I would say to the woman who became a cancer wife today:

 “You’re not going to be okay, but you’re going to get through.”

Matt is fighting a constant battle. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through, because I can barely process my own emotions. He’s short with me some days, frustrated with the world others, sad many and yet he’s still helpful. 

To no fault of his own, he’s being put through something no one can fathom. I can be mad with him some days, but there’s no room for any anger towards anything, but our shit luck. And honestly, we both know anger is a waste of precious energy. 

There is nothing worse than feeling helpless. And that’s more or less what I am. I can research and suggest options, speak up when I don’t think Matt can, make suggestions his doctors don’t always appreciate. But, they aren’t here when he constantly walks around holding his side. With this look on his face. It’s torture. It’s uncomfortable. No matter if it’s a chemo week or not, the colostomy eats at him. But, during treatment weeks it hurts. The symptoms of chemotherapy and immunotherapy are unbearable to witness, much less suffer through yourself. The nausea, the pain, the exhaustion. The rash, and the lesions. I can’t fix them. Medications don’t fix them. Doctors can’t always figure out how to fix them. So he suffers to survive. Therefore, the household needs a thicker skin. 

Folfiri much like it’s close relative Folfox— brings much stress to the the realm . It’s torture. It breeds anger. Anger breeds conflict. There’s nothing anyone can say. Or do. 

But, here we I am silently praying it’s some miracle treatment, giving my daughters and their dad a few more years, weeks, or days. 

So at the halfway mark of the week we have to recover from treatment, I am struggling to stay on top of it all. Reminding myself that I can’t possibly understand what he’s going through. Researching how to approach the situation. Can I ask about alternatives? Of course. Will they indulge me? Probably not. 

So you just stick to what you can control. The household (you can’t really control it, but we all like a challenge). 

So let me reflect on a couple of weeks ago. When I dropped the eldest sassafras off at school. I was running late. She had an epiphany in the car about why Santa might not have brought her everything she asked for. It was comical to me, because obviously she is no angel and she wasn’t always well behaved. She said he didn’t get her everything because she wasn’t always good. I reminded her she got most of what she asked for, because she had been good more than not. She said something about God telling Santa how good she is, and asked if he’s always watching us? 

I hesitated. 

Then bleakly answered, “I hope so.”

I parked. Helped her out of the car and into the school. 

After rushing back to my car, and pulling into the line of other cars turning to exit the parking lot, I turned the opposite direction towards the church. 

Left the Pathfinder running at the front entrance, not a soul in sight.

I wandered inside slowly, as if waiting for someone to stop me. The statues and simple decor reminding me it’s beautiful. Far more modern with sleek surfaces in comparison to the little white church at the front of the campus. The original church. The one I had wandered in as a child. 

But, I’m not a child anymore. I’m just a woman who loves her husband. 

And loves to have control. 

Of which I have none. 

This isn’t that building, but regardless it’s that church. So I kneel in a pew off to the side, a few rows from the the altar. I speak slowly, barely above a whisper. I felt this need to level with the nothingness. Remind the airspace that I had been through a lot long before I had a husband or a family of my own.