Bus Stop Blues

Today was number 2 of the four planned AC treatments.  My sister Mary spent the night last night and we had a pajama party, so she could come with me to my 7:15 am appointment. 

Last night around 11:00 I woke from a dead sleep and realized I had changed my mind and decided I wasn't going to do this treatment.  Nope, don't wanna go, ya can't make me.  Every time I go for a treatment, I make an active choice - it really is up to me.  I can go, or not go.  And I wasn't going to go.

I didn't want to because I had started to feel human again this week, and I didn't want to feel unhuman again.  It never fails:  We don't realize how awful we feel until we start to feel better again.  I had gone through the entire first week thinking, "I'm a frickin' rock star!!!" and I was so frickin' wrong.   Every day, slowly, I was feeling worse - taste buds rebelling, hair starting to thin, a cold that felt like the flu, aches and pains, exhaustion. intestinal fun and games.  Individually, they weren't bad; together, they were draining me.  About Day 9, I started to feel really good.  On Day 10, I was alive and feeling normal again!  And on Day 14 - I was going to walk back into the chemo center and choose to do this again?  Oh hell no, I don't think so.

So the alarm goes off this morning, and I'm up and at 'em, and ready to go.  Because in the end, it's still my choice, and while I am not looking forward to feeling like shit again, this is part of my journey.

Mary brings the camera and volunteers to be my Official Chemo Artistic Director.  When we get to the Center, the lab technician comes out and says, "I'm looking for a cheeseburger" and turns around and walks away.

It takes me a moment to realize he's calling me back (for some reason people think the burger/Berger  jokes are funny).  Michael (I checked his nametag!) insists on some fun pre-treatment screening, like asking for my weight (dose is determined by weight so it's the one time in my life I'm happy to get on a scale), my BP and temp (all really good/below normal), and then pokes my finger for a blood count:

We then meet up with Laurie, the clinical trials coordinator, who talks with me for a while about the last two weeks.  She shares with me that everything I've experienced is normal (I suppose I should be thankful for that, but it sucks that this is normal), and that my iron, ANC (absolute neutrophil count), red-blood cell counts are well within normal ranges.  So, I'm good to go for treatment today.

After meeting with the nurse-practitioner who checks my lungs (and gives me a pep talk about the importance of social workers in the oncology unit and that "we UM staff" are really pushing for more SWers so that nurses don't have to do double-duty in helping patients and that I might want to consider doing my MSW internship there...), Mary and I walk down to the infusion center.  I am in Chair 4 today, facing the outside courtyard (my chair is in the front right of the photo).

A little disclaimer:  Some of the following photos show my port, my infusion, and some of the drugs that are being used.  Please skip past if you want/need to.

I put on my slippers, sit in my recliner, and open my shirt (yes, I keep my clothes on; I do not have to change into a hospital gown.  It helps lessen the "clinical" aspect of it all and makes it so much easier physically and mentally).  But I still start to cry like a baby, and the nurse is so kind.  Mary hugs and kisses me, and I gather my strength and stop myself.  Let's get this party started!  The nurse opens the needle and asks me to sit back in the chair...

Ready...

Set...

 GO!

And with very minimal pain (and a reflexive kick to my poor sister's shin), my port is accessed and ready for use.

(The red is "flash" which is good; it means that the port is open and flowing and that blood is accessible - in other words, the port is working, not clogged or kinked, and ready to be used).

Time to snuggle down in the prayer shawl and fleecy blanket that Ken's coworkers so generously shared with me.  After some saline and anti-nausea meds, it's time for the Ativan (which makes me only slightly more loopy than usual).

Then we have more saline, the steroid (which lengthens the efficacy of the anti-nausea drugs), and finally, it's time:

(Note the protective gear that she is wearing, and the "!!Danger Will Robinson!!" sticker on the bag that holds the chemo drugs).

Meet my Red Devil:

This is the Adriamycin.  This is the first of the two chemo drugs administered during this phase of my treatment.  As I mentioned before, the syringe is comically large and filled with red Kool-aid - except it's not.  The nurse must wear protective gear to infuse it, and she lays a protective cover over me, just in case any spills.  Adria is a vesicant, which means it will cause tissue damage and blistering if it escapes from the vein.  This is why the nurse is constantly checking for "flash" while injecting this medication:  she pushes a little in, then pulls back slightly to ensure that the port is still accessed, it ain't broke, and stuff isn't leaking into my tissues.  In truth, I expect this medication to hurt; so far, it never has, and it isn't expected to.

Once the Adria is complete, we move on to the Cytoxan, a small, boring, clear liquid in a little bag hanging from my IV pole:

Half an hour (and a sinus headache - a SE of the Cytoxan) later, I'm beeping and we're done!  Quick flush with some Heparin (to keep the port from clogging), and the nurse pulls the needle out, revealing...nothing!  Not even a drop of blood this time.

A port is totally the way to go.

We pack up our belongings; I slip off my slippers and tie on my tennies.  I keep the prayer shawl on - for luck, for blessings, for warmth, for love.  Mary and I go out for breakfast (I figure 9-grain French toast is fairly safe) and shopping at Anna's, then the candle store.  Still feeling great, but starting to feel the beginnings of the emotional exhaustion.

So now it's naptime.  I sit at the bus stop, waiting for the next bus to arrive.  It could be tomorrow, it might be next week, I don't know.  I was warned today that this treatment will make me feel worse than the last - the SE's are cumulative over the course of treatments.  However, I am now half-way through my AC treatments - two down, two left to go!!  The Taxol treatments (the remaining 6 rounds of the 10 total) will have different SE's, maybe easier, maybe not.  I won't know until I get on that crosstown bus.

When I looked out the window today, I noticed a little sign on the sill.  In all the years of reading A.A. Milne I don't remember seeing this quote, but I found it the other day and had used it as my FB status.  Now here it was, sharing this space with me, and I found myself much more at peace.

Thank you for being with me today!