Side effects

The first few weeks, when I went in for treatment, I was afforded my own private room. Dominating the view in these small cubbyholes is a large green chemo chair, which unfortunately I keep forgetting to capture on film. Designed for comfort, the chemo chair - boxy, overly padded, draped in wires, tubes and controls, bolt upright, and in a bold hue I can only describe as hospital green - welcomes you with all the charm of an electric chair.

My past two appointments, though - last Friday and yesterday - I came in the morning. Mornings are considerably busier than late afternoons, meaning crowded waiting rooms, shared treatment areas, cheerier hospital staff...and perhaps surprisingly, faster service (more personnel on the clock, I assume). A crowded waiting room is a noisy one, even the oncology clinic isn't exactly the pediatric ward or the emergency room. Most patients are accompanied by a companion, the purpose of which I can only imagine is to cheer and comfort the patient; but in actuality, these delightful guests seem only to provide (or encourage) sounding boards for endless streams of complaints. A crowded waiting room is also an impatient one. Perhaps the large volume of patients creates an unconscious current of scarcity (though unfounded: there are concurrently extra staff on hand to treat the increased volume of patients). Whatever the reason, the topic on all lips is most frequently, anxiously, "What is taking so long? When will they see me?"

It makes it hard to concentrate on reading a good book.

Shared treatment rooms are another side effect of morning appointments. A shared room has two or three hospital beds, sometimes separated by curtains. Hospital beds are somewhat awkward for me, because I like to sit up, not lay down. My bed yesterday was a particular challenge. I kept shifting around, trying to find a comfortable and at least mildly supported seating position, but every time I'd adjust, so would the bed. It was like a mechanical, time-delayed waterbed, subtly (if noisily) lifting and lowering to match my every move, frustrating my futile attempts at proper posture. Finally, the nurse informed me that the bed was designed that way, for those confined to the horizontal, to alleviate stress on the body and help prevent bed sores. I felt a little sheepish.

Yesterday, my companion across the curtained room was an older woman who apparently was in great pain. She moaned loudly with every breath, tossing and turning relentlessly in her hospital bed. On first appearance by the nurse, she started haggling for heavy-duty pain drugs and muscle relaxers, which thankfully, quieted her down for some time. But later, when the nurse came to take her vitals and ask her to quantify her pain (we all have to quantify our pain, which is devilishly difficult for me: on a scale of 1-10, how badly does it hurt? Um, does 10 refer to being disemboweled and burned at the stake alive? Well...I guess maybe a 1 or 2??), the moaner and groaner only offered up a "3 or 4". 3 or 4?! That's well within the grin-grit-and-shut-up stage for me.

My companions last Friday were an elderly man who spoke little English and had to be led out since he had shown up for the wrong treatment, and a middle-aged woman next to me whining out a litany of complaints from before she even lay down. Now my perspective on side effects is, they happen, deal with it. Chemo isn't exactly a day at the spa. My nurses want me to inform them of my side effects, but I generally confine it to a brief list: what, where, how long. I haven't taken any of the "optional" side-effect-reducing medications, figuring it's better to have my body fight back (and anyway, I already choke down a cocktail of drugs daily in addition to all the IV toxins pumped in each week). A few times, the well-meaning but somewhat overbearing nurses have instructed me to call the on-call doctor if I notice any side effects from week to week, but honestly, unless I'm having life-threatening symptoms, what can they do? "Drink a lot of water, take some anti-nausea pills, call me in the morning." Or even better, schlep all the way across town to the hospital to have them tell me the same thing? No thanks. I'll deal.

Well, this woman, apparently she could not deal. Two solid hours of complaint after complaint, as nurses shuffled by, most not listening. Again, not very conducive to book-reading or music-listening, as I sat next to her, trapped by my IV and a slow-infusing drug. Her eyesight, her toes, her feet, her arms, her sense of balance, her depressive thoughts, her wakefulness or sleepiness...amidst the long and endless list, another woman appeared with a styrofoam take-out box. "Here, I brought you lunch," she said to my companion, and disappeared.

Now, the one undeniable symptom all chemo patients share is nausea. Loss of appetite, strange tastes, a digestive system that doesn't want to cooperate, and above all, nausea - to some degree or another; it never goes away. Even if you're otherwise feeling great...food...it's still not your friend. You find what works for you on a daily, or weekly, basis - a fizzy juice drink, saltine crackers, ice cream bars, popcorn. You never know. It's usually something mild and somewhat liquid.

This woman popped open her box and started devouring a very spicy, very pungent, very large taco salad. Ravenously. In between crunches, she continued to toss out complaints.

I think I see why the nurses don't trust me when I say I'm doing fine.