Tuesday November 16th was a sunny and mild day, weather-wise. Chemotherapy day. I had prepared myself for my upcoming session by taking my pre-chemo pills of Zofran and Decadron. I made sure that the sticky tape that would soon cling to my chest would be in contact only with a smooth surface. Of all the medical manhandling I have gone through, pulling clumps of hair off my chest when removing old tape is the worst. I may not have a lot of insight to the whole process but I urge any guy going through something similar to shave first and thank me later. With the preliminary at-home maintenance completed, I was off to the Windsor Regional Cancer Centre one more time.
I'm too young to suffer from Alzheimers (I hope) and with only seven prior chemotherapy sessions, I shouldn't have chemo brain. Yet there I was at a computer terminal at the Cancer Centre, vainly trying to recall my password to begin the registration process. I had done this on seven prior occasions, and it was only three months since I had last performed this minor task. Two of the yellow-coat-wearing volunteers were spotted. Easily 20 years my senior, I humbly ask them how to log in to the terminal. With bright smiles and small words they patiently explained to me the login process. They've done this a thousand times before, and are very well versed in working with those that may be technology-challenged. I on the other hand work in IT. I'm supposedly a technology-savvy person. I'm supposed to be a GEEK for cryin' out loud! Passwords are my lifeblood, I use dozens of them daily when I'm at work. I change them at strange intervals, I use arcane and obscure trivia to obfuscate their creation and pride myself on making strong and secure passwords. Therefore it is very ego-deflating that I should require technical assistance for the very thing that I myself provided in my past life.
Well it wasn't long after we got the password figured out that I was able to complete the registration process. With paperwork in hand I wander over to the receptionist who gives me a pager. These pagers are the kind with lots of flashing lights and vibrating effects, the type that are handed out by the hostess of an Applebees to let customers know when their tables are ready. Unfortunately when this pager goes off my waitress turns out to be a chemo nurse, and the only cocktail she's serving is chemical.
Chair #12 and I are acquainted from my past visits. Our mutual friend, my wonderful chemo Nurse starts setting up for what will become my eighth chemotherapy session. Being once more in the chair after so long an absence brings about a strange feeling of excitement and nervousness. Then more nervousness as I realize I'm sweating. I realize that I had forgotten to put on my deodorant that morning. Of all the things to forget. At least I remembered to wear pants. Fortunately it's not too hot in the room and I don't have to worry about offending anyone ( I hope). I'm frantically going through my mental checklist of all the things I need to be doing during the next few days of my chemo when the sound of the IV pole being wheeled up to the chair shifts my focus to events around me. I'm being asked to unbutton my shirt, the process is about to begin - one little pinprick and the needle slides through the skin covering my port. I'm hooked up and the meter is ticking as the magic cancer-killing concoction drips into my veins.
This is not so bad, I'm comfortable, no longer nervous and my laptop is on the 'net courtesy of the 'Guest Access' wifi. Because this session is only eight weeks after my big surgery, I will not be given Avastin this time. My session will take me past noon however. In the meantime I settle into my surprisingly comfortable chair. These chairs recline, they are heated I believe, and are padded quite well. My session proceeds as it had in the past, the body remembers what it did last time, even if my brain doesn't! As I had done in prior sessions, a magic needle given to me stopped the nausea feelings. Two needles, injected in the muscle, one per arm and most of the uncomfortable feelings disappear.
It was past noon when I was finally untangled from the IV Pole and it's array of now-empty bags. A complimentary lunch showed up just then: mushroom soup, tea, juice and an Egg Salad Sandwich. I like egg salad. Except I make mine in the Northern Ontario way: using Miracle Whip instead of Mayo. Thus whenever I bite into an E.S.S. made anywhere else, I'm disappointed. I miss the tang of the Miracle Whip. This particular hospital-cafeteria provided E.S.S. was no exception, but as I was hungry I ate it anyway. Later that night I would come to regret that decision. A regret that would last through the next week. Unfortunately I would form an almost Pavlovian trigger between Egg Salad and certain other actions.
Just prior to my lunch, the final chemo process of installing the 5FU pump was performed. My 48-hour friend was secured to my IV Port and my eighth chemotherapy session was well and truly on its way. The session would be considered complete when the pump was removed two days later. In the meantime I had to make sure I would take my meds at the proper times. I would miss the final pill on the final day, but overall I did pretty much everything I needed to do for the chemo process to work. Now that I was wearing the pump my energy level went way down, as expected and I would find that the old sensations of sore chest and arms would return when I did even mild physical activities. Napping and watching tv were the highlight of my 'daze of chemo'.
I stoically endured the nausea feelings, occasionally popping an anti-nausea pill. This managed to stave off most of the unpleasantness of the initial chemo barrage, but alas for me, it was incomplete. Trying to sleep I was roused after midnight by soreness in my chest. I coudn't get comfortable. I hurt. I was also thinking of the Egg Salad Sandwich I had some 12 hours prior.....
When I returned to bed, I was considerably relieved, somewhat lighter, and the chest soreness virtually gone. Perhaps the lack of a Gall Bladder also exacerbated the chemo+ESS issue, but from that point on for the next week or so, even the thought of Egg Salad would cause me to gag. I can eat scrambled eggs fine however. Weird.
I can report that after this solitary bout of nausea I was successful in avoiding the majority of my other annoying side effects. The days passed, I was not losing weight, eating was not problematic, but drinking water was. I needed to supplement the water with juices and ginger ale (Canada Dry, eh). Water never seemed to satisfy the palette but I just had to force myself to drink. Dehydration is not a good thing.
At the appointed time I went to see the folks at the clinic who would take care of removing my 5FU bottle. This turned out to be the most interesting part of my chemo session for a couple of reasons.
One reason was that a senior nurse was instructing a junior nurse (terms are relative of experience, not age!) on how to properly remove the 5FU pump. Not a problem, I don't mind being the teaching dummy.
The other reason was due to my blood return not working. Again. This is turning out to be an annoying and ongoing issue. As the clinic I was at does not have the same technical resources to deliver the chemo equivalent of 'Liquid Plumbr' to unclog whatever was clogging me up, a more energetic approach was tried.
The typical approach involves turning ones head and coughing. Or raising the arm on the same side as the Port while coughing. The flush of the port has always worked, they just can't bring back any blood (and when they do they nicely put it back in again!) I started feeling sorry for the two nurses as heroic measures and experiences and tricks-of-the-trade were applied. What typically is a half-hour process extended to over two hours. In the end I was sent back to the Cancer Centre bearing documents that attested to the fact that this well was a dry hole. Hopefully there's no dynamiting in my future. The removal of the pump officially completed Chemo Session #8 for me. Only four more to go after this.
Aside from the no blood return thing and the ESS incident, my session was remarkably boring. I was even able to begin drilling a PCB that will constitute Chemo Clock #8. My life is boring. My life continues, how great is that!
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