Tuesday, the day before my 4th and final chemo treatment, I took the Dexamethason steroids in the morning and hoped there'd be less lurch walking by noon, which was usually how long it took for the numbing factor to kick in. It didn't seem as effective this time. My knees were slightly better, but I'd still have to stand a second at my desk before taking an assured step.
By the time I was 30, I had calcium deposits on my knees that made them creaky sounding when I climbed stairs, but no pain. I'd long been a tennis-playing fanatic and appreciate now, with the wisdom of senior thinking and reflection, that it must have driven my mother batty to hear me practice forehands, backhands and serves for hours by hitting the ball against the wooden garage door. I wonder how much restraint it took for her not to open the door and practice the skillet toss at her thoughtless daughter.
Fresh out of college, when I moved to Chicago, I became close friends with Sue, another tennis fanatic, and we played tennis nearly every day, from the time the snow melted off the courts to the day it returned and deposited a new layer. On 100° days, she and I would be the only two foolish enough to shake and bake in the punishing heat. After work, she'd zip down Michigan Avenue in her red Corvette, pull up in front of the Tribune, and I'd come running out, already changed into my tennis outfit. Off we'd race to grab an open court or rack up for next available. I was in the best shape of my life. But also not aware of the pounding my knees were taking. A couple of years of racquetball playing a decade later pretty much sealed their fate. I've often wondered if Sue would now be dealing with knee issues, but sadly, a heart attack stole her away nearly two decades ago.
And over the past 10 years or so, I'd had days where one knee or the other would blow during weight lifting or kickboxing or Zumba or whatever other physical activity I was signed up for in an attempt to move those dust-collecting size 4 outfits from the back of my closet to center stage. But I'd never had anything like this before. Not only tender to the touch, my knees were so painful that I'd wake up from a sound sleep every time I'd move. I'm wondering -- and hoping -- that when the last traces of chemo drugs have left my system -- along with the bone-marrow-boosting Neulasta drug that admits it intensifies joint aches -- I'll go back to having just mildly annoying knees and this will all be just a bad memory.
But first, I had my final chemo session coming the next day, delayed from the previous Wednesday. Supposedly, it takes 21 days for the chemo drugs -- let's call them what they really are -- toxins -- to leave the victim's system. Come April 8, 2010, it will be 22 days after my last chemo treatment and I'm penciling in a "Welcome back, knees" celebration. You're all welcome to join me. I'll even host a drawing with my tennis racquet, also long gathering dust in the closet, as the grand prize.
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