Odd weeks

I can do without the odd weeks, I have decided. Last week was so unnaturally...well, pleasant. Approaching normal, even. So few symptoms; plus, I had energy. I traveled, hiked, worked, and danced late into the night at a Tuesday-evening party (just don't tell my doctors!).

Odd-week drugs are not so blithe of spirit. Weeks 1 and 5 I receive mechlorethamine, doxorubicin, and vinblastine; weeks 3 and 7 the mechlorethamine is replaced by etoposide, which can't all be delivered in one day. So after several hours at the hospital today, tomorrow morning, I return for round two.

Etoposide, C₂₉H₃₂O₁₃, interferes with the coiling necessary for DNA replication. It is derived chemically from the Mayapple, a completely toxic plant except for the mature fruit. Etoposide is delivered very slowly via IV, as it can lower blood pressure (mine, luckily, was remarkably consistent today).

In addition to low blood pressure, side effects can include hair loss, pain or burning at the IV site, constipation or diarrhea, metallic tastes, bone marrow suppression (lowered white and red blood cell counts; lowered platelet counts), nausea, rash, fever, and mouth sores.

Odd-week drugs sap a lot out of me. I slept for six hours this afternoon and am more than ready to crawl right back between the covers for another eight or ten tonight. Horizontal is easy - I drift and dream and idly calculate how much longer I can legitimately put off choking down another round of pills.

My white blood cell count was low today; so tomorrow, I'll get a booster drug. I've been warned it will cause severe arthritic-type bone pain throughout my body.

While lingering in the DMZ today, I was hit up by a hawkish, rail-thin woman representing the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I do not doubt they provide very helpful and supportive services to patients and their families, but being plied with personal questions by this overbearing, piercing lady in her dazzling fuchsia satin blouse and overly made-up face while I sat with tubes and needles cascading from my shoulder, awaiting treatment...let's just say, her timing was less than ideal.

To add to the joy, this week's nurse was of the patronizing variety. Just because you are my mother's age doesn't mean you can treat me like a small child. An honest concern and care; straightforward questions about my symptoms; clear and necessary direction for managing side effects: these are, of course, welcomed. But the wide, flat, indulgent smile, accompanied by any comments beginning, "Now, honey...," well, I tend to shut down.

I have no grand closing words tonight. I'm tired and feel yucky. Bedtime.