Two Weeks of Chemo: Day 1

This is part of an ongoing two-week series. For more info, see this introductory post.

Over the last few months, I have learned to dread many things that made me happy (e.g. Fridays, hospitals, food). Day 1 is the peak of my dread.

I wake up early so Jenni and I can be at the chemo suite by 8am. They do a lab panel on my blood to check if I am healthy enough for treatment. The finger prick usually leaves me with a bruise for a day or two. True, it's a minor inconvenience but as you will see, they add up quickly.

We wait for the results in conflicted anxiety. No one hopes for chemo, but having it delayed because of low blood counts is much worse in the long run. It takes several days of good health at the end of the previous cycle to psych one's self up for the next. You write off the next few days, stock up on palatable foods (soup or Popsicles depending on the season), and brace for impact. When my second cycle was delayed, I felt better physically than I had in weeks but far worse psychologically. I wasn't fighting the cancer. This was the whole point of this expensive, draconian treatment. This was why I suffered through biopsies and surgeries and all the side effects of willfully poisoning myself.

Today, the results come back fine and we head back to our chemo station. I get a comfy reclining chair and a decent lake and hills view. There is also a TV and less-comfy chair for Jenni. This is our home for the next three to four hours. For patients with longer treatments (ranging up to eight hours straight!), a healthy dose of Benadryl and a nice long nap are all that's required. We have filled our short stays with many activities including homework, reading, phone games, and knitting (more Jenni than I, unsurprisingly). Our best idea to while away the hours has been to bring in our Nintendo Wii. Time flies when you're playing Mario Kart.

The nurses are fantastic. One might think that working around the critically ill all the time would get you down, but I've never seen a more upbeat unit. They run from patient to patient, trying to stay ahead of the onslaught of medication changes (for reference, I have seven different medications that I get every treatment and there are as many as nine patients in the unit at one time). Some of the medications require a direct push, which is when the nurse has to sit with the patient and slowly push the medication into IV line over the course of 10-15 minutes, checking for good blood return the entire time. It is a very intimate experience, but rarely awkward with such great nurses.

Before the medications even enter my system, my body goes into high alert. It remembers this place, these smells, and the sick feelings that follow. By an hour into the treatment, I'm already nauseated, which is silly because the only medications I have received at that point are entirely to pre-treat for the soon-to-be chemo induced nausea. I feel bad for the volunteers that come by from the local cancer center. They have a tab down in the cafeteria and will buy you anything, but inevitably nothing sounds good. I have been in their shoes before; all you want to do is help but there is so little you can do. Sometimes I order a soda though I know I won't finish it, just so they can feel useful.

When the last saline flush has finished, I am happy to leave but I know I am bringing the poison in my veins home with me. Though I don't feel great, the malaise I feel midday Friday is just the first band of rain from the oncoming storm. I can usually power through these feelings and do something productive in the afternoon. While I was still in school, this included going to class, lab, and occasionally even volunteering. If I was busy, I wasn't thinking about how I felt physically.

Afterwards, I try to force myself to eat something for dinner and settle in for a movie or simply an early nights' sleep. When I'm unconscious, I can't feel sick.

Ahead to Day 2.