1 down, 9 to go

It's official - my first "kenotheramy" treatment is history.  I now have but a mere 9 more to go.  Whoo-hoo!  We're almost there!

(I understand that proper grammar dictates I spell out any numbers under 10, but frankly the number "1" has far more visual impact than "one".  And it's my blog, so grammar be damned, which is really hard for me to accept).

Even though there have already been other surgeries and procedures, this feels like the "beginning" of treatment.  It's the beginning of my active involvement, perhaps my time for feeling empowered.  I'm not unconscious and having it done to me, only to wake up with less breast tissue that before.  Instead I am awake and alert and asking questions and seeing, watching, all that is going on around me, and in to me.  It's an interesting, exciting, scary, humbling experience.

My finger poke reveals that all my levels are well, and treatment can begin.  We talk with Laurie, my Cancer Concierge (aka, the clinical trials coordinator).  I am the last person to be entered into the trial; it has now closed.  I feel special, in some way, for getting in just under the wire.  The nurse comes in to access the port, and I start to fall apart.  Just a little.  A couple of tears.

I'm afraid of the pain - how much is this going to hurt?
I'm afraid of the instrument - is it a torture device?
I'm afraid - because now it's real.  There is no denying that I Have Cancer, and now I'm in treatment. 

I can no longer hide from that really ugly fact.

The nurse sees me crying and gives me a hug - which only makes me cry harder.  She validates every little thing I'm feeling, and tells me she'd be worried if I wasn't worried.  She promised it would get better after the first treatment, because Factor X - the unknown - is gone. 

She cleans the skin above my port, and opens the needle.  It is very small and short, and in a "T" shape, coming out from a rubber/plastic flange about an inch long.  Coming out of that flange is a small clear tube.  The nurse tells me she's going to insert it, and I brace myself for the typical pain I feel when I get poked for an IV or a blood draw -

- but I didn't feel any of that.  A quick little prick and it's in.  And doesn't continue to hurt.  It's just there, hanging out of my chest.  She tapes me up, and then starts drawing blood - 9 vials, if I remember correctly - all the while talking about her BC experience.  Laurie then talks about her experience, back when she was in the military.  They talk about their lumpectomy scars ("Mine is like a huge divot"  "Oh, well, mine was, but then they took the whole breast so that's not an issue now") and I realize I am truly among friends.  They understand the fears I am having, not because they are professionals, but because they had been through this before.  As awful as it sounds, their experience really helped me today.

Blood drawn, we're ready for the main event, so we walk down to the infusion suite.  I'm in a corner, across from the windows so I can watch the snow blowing and drifting around the hospital.  I settle into the comfy reclining chair and they give me a hot blanket from the blanket warmer (almost makes the trip worthwhile).  Then I decide I need to pee before I get all hooked up, so I jump up and around the corner, then back and all settled in.  But I'm still scared, because I still really just don't know...

The nurses are wonderful, smiling and happy and accommodating.  And authentic.  You can tell they are happy to be doing what they're doing (and more power to them, I'm not sure I could).  Our nurse explains every little thing she's doing as she does it - what medication is going in, how long it will take, flushing in the port in between, what I might feel as the meds go in, etc.  I'm given Emend, a long-term nausea medication, as well as some steroids and anti-anxiety medication (I was still a little agitated).  That took about an hour to complete.

The nurse then comes around the corner draped in a blue gown, with blue gloves, and two large plastic bags that say, "Chemotherapy" in bold letters across the front (I wanted to tell her she must have the wrong medication because I'm using Kenotheramy, but maybe next time).  She and another nurse ask for my name and birth date; they are double-checking the medication to be used (great idea!)  The first medication is given via a syringe into the port line.  The syringe is very large - like, almost Jim Carey-comically large - and filled with red Koolaid.  Or, that's what it looks like.  This is the "A", or Adriamycin.  I already know that this is the medication that will cause my hair to fall out.  I also know this is the medication that will cause me to pee red for a day as it's being flushed out of my system (drink more water, girl!!)  The nurse injects the Adria into the line, pushing slowly but steadily - and in less than 10 minutes, that's over.

The second medication is the Cytoxan - an innocuous-looking clear plastic bag filled with clear fluid.  Could be saline, for all I know, but I trust that it is what it's supposed to be.  The nurse hangs the bag, hooks it up to the port line, and says it'll be done in half an hour.

Ken and I talk; I shiver under the blankets (sometimes the medication is kept cool or cold, so it's making me a little chilly).  The next thing I know my IV machine is beeping - *bing*, I'm banana bread.

Ken and I look at each other - we really thought we'd be here half the day.  I never had a chance to crack my textbook.  I didn't even think about my knitting.  It felt like it was over almost before it began.

A few minutes (and a Heparin flush) later, we are leaving.  Bundled up against the snow and wind and cold, I realize I never had breakfast, so we plan lunch and dinner on the way home.  I change out the shower curtain for a new one, clean up the bedroom a little bit.  It only takes about an hour for the first side effect (or SE) to hit, but Immodium seems to be doing the trick.  I'm not tired - the steroids will see to that.  Nothing hurts, even the port. 

I keep waiting to "feel" something - bad, awful, icky, poisonous, I guess - but it's not happening.  I know, in a few days, I'll be feeling something akin to the flu, but in about a week I'll be feeling better again - just in time for the next treatment.  But hey, today was the first step; every day is now one day closer to being done with this treatment.

I bought a deck of Affirmation cards yesterday, and intend to use them every day.  Today's was so remarkably reflective of where I am at this point in my life: 

"Everything works out for the best for me!"

And so it will.