Not like this looming, slow-approaching hurricane of chemo. The storm gathering ominously offshore, the winds strengthening, the seas rising, the pressure dropping. You, sitting at home helpless, watching a wobbly path that bends slowly and inexorably shoreward: not if, but when. The rain bands start to beat insistently on the windows and the winds tug at your shingles. Eventually the TV is subsumed by snow, the radio succumbs to static, the lights flicker off, the house sits thickly still in a ghostly absence of the hum of fans and air conditioners. And still you wait, hamstrung by the storm, hunkered down, butterflies beating about in your stomach.
Butterflies beating about. I think I'm hardening to the DMZ. Yesterday the blood-drawing tech was having a bad day. She screamed at me to hurry up when I was having my vitals checked by another tech across the hall. Then she screamed at me for putting my paperwork in her box at all, the wrong box for those with ports who need nurses to draw their blood: a blessing in disguise; now I can avoid the grouchy tech.
It took a long time to get going yesterday. My port was in very good condition, but it was still only two days post-op, and it hurt like hell when they poked the IV needle through. That necessitated a long, slow flush with saline solution while they waited for my port area to numb up and the results to come back from my pregnancy test. ("No, I swear, there's no way I'm pregnant...") They filled up the time with visits from nurses and pharmacists, and for once I was allotted the time to ask questions about the timing of appointments and the changes in lifestyle I could expect. After a couple of anti-nausea pills and a shot to shut off my ovary production for a few months, they at last broke out their barrage of pads and needles and syringes and bags and gloves, and were ready to begin.
I was terrified. It's a rather daunting experience. I wanted to read my magazine, listen to my iPod, and toy with my little stress ball, but the nurses had other ideas. This week's treatment came not through a slow-drip IV, but through large syringes that were hooked up to my port and slowly injected, to the accompaniment of a gentle saline IV flow. Watching noxious materials slowly enter your body would be bad enough, were it not paired throughout with the ever-so-helpful commentary from the nurse on all the characteristics and side effects of the drugs I was receiving.
I kept expecting to suddenly break out in convulsions, puke violently, or drop in a dead faint. None of this happened. In fact, I felt fine. It was odd. The butterflies still beat about anxiously in my stomach. After all, they were injecting me with (among other drugs) a form of mustard gas, still one of the most powerful and brutal drugs used in chemical warfare.
I left, took the shuttle, walked home, had dinner, felt fine. Couldn't figure it out. Sure, I was a little cold, but I've always been a lizard, cold-blooded, bad at generating internal heat. I layered up and started work on a couple of projects. Then the anti-nausea drugs began to wear off. Feeling a bit off-kilter, I ingested my daily battery of pills from the pill factory in our kitchen and went to bed.
It was a fairly quiet night, but a rough morning. Horizontal was a decent position, although the gremlins in my digestive tract were doing their morning tai chi. My body temperature was all off: too hot or too cold. I kept frantically checking to see if I still had feeling in my fingertips (peripheral neuropathy, or damage to the nerves on your extremities, is a possible side effect of the chemo drugs and one that I, as a musician, fear most). Vertical was not such a successful position; and even though the floor kept steady beneath me, it was a struggle against rising nausea as I crawled to the kitchen to take my morning pills. The nurses had said to use seasick medicine until I could get a prescription for some anti-nausea pills. It took a few minutes and some concentrated mental effort to reach up even for the trusty bottle of meclizine and swallow the little pink pill. Luckily, that quieted the gremlins enough for me to walk around for a bit and eat breakfast.
I'm glad I don't have many expectations for today, though. I feel beat up - sore on my butt from the bone marrow biopsy on one side and the shot on the other; sore on my right shoulder and neck from the port; fatigued mentally and physically from the pain; and my entire insides beat and battered and churning. At least I don't have to swallow down the nausea, brace myself against a lurching ship, and stand an alert four-hour bridge watch.
Give me an earthquake any day.
It took a long time to get going yesterday. My port was in very good condition, but it was still only two days post-op, and it hurt like hell when they poked the IV needle through. That necessitated a long, slow flush with saline solution while they waited for my port area to numb up and the results to come back from my pregnancy test. ("No, I swear, there's no way I'm pregnant...") They filled up the time with visits from nurses and pharmacists, and for once I was allotted the time to ask questions about the timing of appointments and the changes in lifestyle I could expect. After a couple of anti-nausea pills and a shot to shut off my ovary production for a few months, they at last broke out their barrage of pads and needles and syringes and bags and gloves, and were ready to begin.
I was terrified. It's a rather daunting experience. I wanted to read my magazine, listen to my iPod, and toy with my little stress ball, but the nurses had other ideas. This week's treatment came not through a slow-drip IV, but through large syringes that were hooked up to my port and slowly injected, to the accompaniment of a gentle saline IV flow. Watching noxious materials slowly enter your body would be bad enough, were it not paired throughout with the ever-so-helpful commentary from the nurse on all the characteristics and side effects of the drugs I was receiving.
I kept expecting to suddenly break out in convulsions, puke violently, or drop in a dead faint. None of this happened. In fact, I felt fine. It was odd. The butterflies still beat about anxiously in my stomach. After all, they were injecting me with (among other drugs) a form of mustard gas, still one of the most powerful and brutal drugs used in chemical warfare.
I left, took the shuttle, walked home, had dinner, felt fine. Couldn't figure it out. Sure, I was a little cold, but I've always been a lizard, cold-blooded, bad at generating internal heat. I layered up and started work on a couple of projects. Then the anti-nausea drugs began to wear off. Feeling a bit off-kilter, I ingested my daily battery of pills from the pill factory in our kitchen and went to bed.
It was a fairly quiet night, but a rough morning. Horizontal was a decent position, although the gremlins in my digestive tract were doing their morning tai chi. My body temperature was all off: too hot or too cold. I kept frantically checking to see if I still had feeling in my fingertips (peripheral neuropathy, or damage to the nerves on your extremities, is a possible side effect of the chemo drugs and one that I, as a musician, fear most). Vertical was not such a successful position; and even though the floor kept steady beneath me, it was a struggle against rising nausea as I crawled to the kitchen to take my morning pills. The nurses had said to use seasick medicine until I could get a prescription for some anti-nausea pills. It took a few minutes and some concentrated mental effort to reach up even for the trusty bottle of meclizine and swallow the little pink pill. Luckily, that quieted the gremlins enough for me to walk around for a bit and eat breakfast.
I'm glad I don't have many expectations for today, though. I feel beat up - sore on my butt from the bone marrow biopsy on one side and the shot on the other; sore on my right shoulder and neck from the port; fatigued mentally and physically from the pain; and my entire insides beat and battered and churning. At least I don't have to swallow down the nausea, brace myself against a lurching ship, and stand an alert four-hour bridge watch.
Give me an earthquake any day.
3 comments:
Hey V,
Take it easy, sweet thing. Rest is good. Eyes closed is good. Plenty of time to visualize the drugs doing their thing.
In my experience, the first time you receive the drug is the worst, as it is totally foreign to your body. The next time, your body has seen it before and accepts it more easily. The next couple of days may be tricky but after that you'll be on the upswing.
What did they give you for the nausea? I first had compozine, which made me totally loopy which just made things worse. Kytrel worked very well for me, but it sure is pricey. That was 8 years ago. I'm sure they have newer models.
I honestly don't remember what they gave me at the hospital. It was supposed to last 24 hours but only lasted about 5 or 6.
They gave me a prescription for a few different anti-nausea drugs but I have to go to the CG pharmacy to fill them and I didn't see myself schlepping all the way out there until Monday. I'm depending on OTC stuff until then.
It's such a weird sort of nausea. It's this quivering feeling, like my insides are pulsing really, really quickly.
Hey Carol, could you email me? I have a question for you.
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