My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 12

Takes me a couple of days to recover from chemo treatment number one. After one sick day and one early out from work, I’m back to working 10 hours every day. Whatever my “normal” is these days, I’m there. Mr. S. said my hair would start to fall out three or four weeks after the first chemo treatment. I really should be buying something to cover my head but I’m procrastinating. I did finally buy some buffs and bandanas, and The Best Husband surprised me with some really nice head covers and fake bangs. Not sure I’ll ever wear the bangs, but it was a great thought! It’s around this time that I ditch the sports bra and go back to my iron maiden protective holder. I’m sick of the uniboob. I still have two boobs, and they should be displayed as individuals.

Two weeks to the day from the first chemo treatment, my hair starts falling out. I can’t even touch my hair without coming away with a handful. Two weeks. Not three or four weeks. I feel like a Golden Retriever….leaving a trail of hair everywhere I go. I don’t like it. This is the exact reason I don’t have a Golden Retriever. I make big piles of hair on the bathroom counter. Two days later, on a sunny Saturday morning in February 2012, I tell The Best Husband I’ve had enough. Get out the clippers. Something I never thought I’d be saying to The Best Husband. Standing in the bathtub, The Best Husband shaved my head, very gingerly because my scalp is extremely tender. I knew it would be a disturbing sight, but I don’t think I was really prepared for what I saw in the mirror. I burst into tears. The Best Husband and Best Daughter gave me a group hug. I cried for a few seconds, and then dried my tears. It is, after all, just hair. It will grow back. And I wasn’t completely bald. I had some gray and white clumps left. They didn’t last long though. My hair continued to fall out until all I had left was some peach fuzz. From the back I look like a little old man. Awesome.

Food is not my favorite thing. Nothing tastes good. Nothing sounds good. I’m completely off coffee. I eat whatever I feel like eating, whenever I feel like eating it. For about a week, I have huge sores on the side of my tongue, which hinders the eating process even more. The Best Husband mixes up some salt/baking soda water for swishing around in my mouth. It helps. I’m also using the prescription toothpaste I got from the dentist and flossing every day. Chemo is very bad for your teeth.

March 1^st, it’s back to the cancer center for chemotherapy treatment number two. After today, I’ll be 50% done. Whoop! Same routine. Hook up the IV. Donate two vials of blood. Doctor listens to my heart and lungs and determines I’m good to go. Blood work must have been good, too. The nurse hangs the anti-nausea medication and the saline bags. We’re off and running. The Best Daughter comes to keep me company. I send to her to buy me a 7-11 slurpee. I’m not feeling well.

Eventually an elderly woman sits in the chair next to me. She seems “hard.” You know, like her life has not been easy. She has the look of a seasoned smoker. I don’t know her name, so I’ll call her Marge. The nurses hook Marge up to her first medicine bag. Within 10 minutes, she is having a full blown allergic reaction to the medication. Her face is as red as a lobster. She yells for the nurses. Saying she doesn’t feel good and is seeing black spots. The nurse turns off the IV. The chemo doctor rushes over. The nurses give her a shot of epinephrine and another of Benadryl. She keeps saying “oh shit” and “did you turn off that damn medicine” over and over and over. The chemo doctor, who by the way has the personality of a wet paper bag, is telling her to sit back and calm down. Like this is no big deal. It might not be a big deal to you lady doctor, but it’s a big deal to Marge. If she was my doctor, I’d probably be telling her to shut up and get the hell away from me. Anyway, Marge finally does calm down. Her color returns to normal. But now she’s shaking like a leaf in a strong breeze, all hopped up on epinephrine and Benadryl.  The nurses tell her she has to wait one hour before she can leave. She informs the doctor that she’s done with treatment. She tried it once, like she promised she would, but now she’s done. Marge proceeds to tell me she has stage four lung cancer. She’s just going to let nature take its course.  I’m sure my eyeballs were the size of flying saucers. I can’t imagine not trying everything possible to beat cancer, but that’s just me.  Marge makes a call on her cell phone. The call, which only lasts about 10 minutes, is laced with F-bombs. And Marge is a loud talker. Everybody in the room heard the entire thing. I tried not to stare or laugh out loud. I feel sorry for her. I can’t even imagine how “letting nature take its course” is going to work for her.

I realize, after all the commotion, I’m really, really not feeling well. The Best Husband shows up to spend the rest of the treatment time with me. The Best Daughter leaves. I’m glad she wasn’t there to witness the two huge syringes of red medicine. Just thinking about them even now makes me nauseous. Marge, I believe, had flown the coop by then. Sometime during my last medicine bag, the lower half of my face goes numb. Oh goodie. The chemo is kicking my butt, and it’s not even over. I realize there’s no way I can drive home. The Best Husband drives me home and later comes back for my car with The Best Daughter. I spend the rest of the day in bed, hoping that when I wake up on Friday I will feel a little better. Friday is shot day. I am dreading it.

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 11

So the day after the Christmas Boob Ornament removal, I’m back to work. It’s very odd to be here. I’ve never in my life missed so much work at one time. I feel like I need re-entry training. I go back to the boob doctor in two weeks. Hopefully I will get the go ahead to start chemo. Not that I’m all excited about it or anything. I just want to get it started so I can get it over with. I’m anxious because I don’t know what to expect. Nope, did not get the go ahead. Maybe in another two weeks.

Things return to some normalcy. Going to work every day. Boob doctor every two weeks to check the progress. The boob filled back up a little bit with serum, and the doctor drained it once but a very minimal amount. I think we’ve crossed a significant hurdle. While I’m waiting to start chemo, I go to the dentist and get my teeth deep cleaned. Even though I hate the dentist, all in all it wasn’t that bad of an experience. I say if you can find a good dental hygienist, you’ve got it made. The dentist could look and smell like the Elephant Man, and I wouldn’t care as long as the dental hygienist knows her stuff.

The Best Husband and I go back to see Mr. Saylor. I take all my supplements with me. I want him to physically look at them. I don’t want to be taking anything that will counteract the chemo. He looks at everything. Tells me I can only take the pre/pro-biotic. Everything else has to be shelved. There have never been any studies on the affect of antioxidants on chemotherapy treatments. And, he says, there never will be. Nobody wants to know either way what antioxidants do to chemo. No, the drug companies would rather keep pumping toxic waste into cancer patients because that’s where the money is. Sorry, climbed upon the soap box. Getting down now.

Mr. Saylor reiterates the side affects of chemo: hair loss, tiredness, general crappy feeling. I’m just so excited! NOT. I have no idea how I will feel. I hope there’s not a lot of throwing up. I get enough of that from my migraines. We talk again about what I can and cannot eat. No raw fresh vegetables. No fresh fruit that doesn’t have a protective skin. This still seems odd to me. You’d think that eating healthy during chemo would be the way to go. Nope, says Mr. Saylor. Raw fresh vegetables and fruit are dirty. Lettuce is one of the dirtiest foods. Especially lettuce at a restaurant salad bar or in those premade salads at the store..which I love. The Best Husband and I leave that appointment with the hope that we have the knowledge we need to get through this next hurdle.

Finally, FINALLY, I get the go ahead to start chemo. February 9^th - red letter day on the calendar. Treatment number one. Let’s get this party started.  I go to work for a couple of hours. Getting more anxious as the minutes tick off the clock. My co-workers again arranged for everybody to wear pink. I head to the clinic, a short 20 minute drive away, and meet The Best Husband in the parking lot. We walk in, and I sign in. My heart is beating out of my chest. I get called to the back. The Best Husband has to wait in the lobby. I have to weigh. Why? Can’t we just write “too much” and be done with it? Blood pressure, surprisingly, is normal. I think I left my heart in the waiting room. The tech hands me two vials and sends me to the big room full of chairs that are full of people receiving some kind of chemotherapy. It’s scary that so many people have cancer. We’re killing ourselves with fast food, microwave food, preservatives, additives, pink slime, obesity. And we’re slowing introducing cancer into countries like China, which used to have the lowest cancer rate in the entire world. Sorry, another soap box moment. I can’t really bitch. I use the microwave every day. I don’t exercise enough. I weigh too much. Huge black marks. All things I plan to fix when this is over.  We have cut way back on the fast food that we eat, though. One small gold star.

So the nurse comes over and asks if I have a PICC line. No, I don’t. I’m only getting four treatments. No PICC line. She looks for a vein. I show her my one good vein, which probably won’t be any good when this is all over. She sets up the IV line, fills the vials with blood and tells me to just sit tight. Blood tests have to be done before they can start dripping the toxic waste into my body. Everything comes back okay, so the nurse hangs a bag of anti-nausea medicine and a bag of saline. It tastes weird. When the anti-nausea bag is empty,  she hangs a bag of steroids, which helps with nausea. It also makes my fingers all bloated. I take off my watch and wedding ring. In a few minutes, I see her approaching with two huge syringes of red liquid - it looks like koolaid - and a smaller syringe of clear liquid. These are two of my three chemo medicines. She brings a cup of ice and tells me while she’s pushing the red liquid into my arm, I have to chew ice. It helps ward off mouth sores. I notice she’s pushing the red liquid slowly, pulling blood back into the syringe before every push. She has to do that, she says, to make sure she doesn’t blow the vein. One drop of the red liquid outside the vein, and the skin would immediately start corroding. Yikes, I could have done without knowing that little bit of knowledge. I’m also thinking, hey, if it could corrode my skin, what’s it doing to my vein? She finishes pushing both medicines and hangs the third bag of chemo medicine. As soon as I’m done with that and the saline bag, I can go home. Sometime during all this I slept for a little bit. I also watched television and read a book on my Kindle. Next time I'm going to ask for the password to their WiFi. The Best Husband sat there right next to me through the whole ordeal - 5 hours. I told him he didn’t have to. But he wouldn’t leave. I’m sure he was bored out of his mind.

I’m starving by the time we get home. We eat a little something. Watch a little television. I go to bed thinking that I feel pretty good. Wake up Friday morning, I still don’t feel all that badly. Every Friday afternoon after chemo is shot day. The shot is to wake up my bone marrow, “stir it up” as Mr. Saylor said, to increase the production of white blood cells that will help fight off infection. Mr. Saylor said the shot would make me ache everywhere. Saturday would be a so-so day. Sunday would suck. The shot stung like crazy. And I had to weigh again. Like through some miracle I lost weight overnight. Nope. I go to bed Friday night thinking “piece of cake.” I wake up Saturday thinking “not a piece of cake.” Spent all day Saturday in bed. If Saturday was bad, Sunday was 1000 times worse. Wow. I felt like I’d been run over by a semi….several times. My bed was my best friend. Monday rolled around and while I was a little better, I was not good enough to go to work so I called in sick. Monday I graduated from my bed to the couch. Moving was torture, so I stayed as still as I possibly could. Finally, around 2:00pm, I felt like I had turned the corner. I was going to live! Hallelujah on the left side of my brain. On the right side - you know what I’m thinking - is this how it’s going to be every time? Ugh.

My Trip Down the Cancer Wormhole - Part 10

So once again, we’re back at the hospital at the butt crack of dawn (Dec 20^th). You all already know how I feel about that. The hospital staff gathers up all the lucky surgery candidates and sends us through the maze of halls to the surgery lobby. I started Baaaa-ing like a sheep at The Best Husband as we walked. All we were missing was a cowboy on a cutting horse and a sheep dog.

This go round, I was not pre-registered with the surgery nurse. So I was one of the last one’s called. All the private rooms must have been full because this time I had a bed and a curtain. I wouldn’t even classify it as semi-private. It was more like a non-private cubicle. I did have that great thick paper gown with all the air hookups and of course the awesome purple socks. The non-private cubicle was okay, though. The head nurse was a hoot and kept me entertained. Dr. C. finally showed up. Then the anasteshiologist. You know, the guy that puts you to sleep. I asked that they not give me Morphine. The surgical nurse asked why? I said because it makes me feel horrible. I don’t like it. She got a really weird look on her face. I don’t care what you think, lady. Don’t give me Morphine. Again, how do people get addicted to pain killers? I have yet to try one that I like. Dr. C. told The Best Husband that he would not be able to speak to him after the surgery because he had to get back over to the office. The nurse would be giving us our discharge instructions.

Speaking of the nurse, she came over right before I was wheeled away and put those massage things on my legs. I’ve never used those before. When they hooked ‘em up in the operating room and turned ‘em on…that was a weird feeling for sure. Shortly after that, it was lights out. I woke up in a much better state than the first surgery. I could breathe, but I was in terrible pain. I remember moaning, loudly.  A male whisper in my ear, “I’ll get you something for the pain.” “Thank you,” I whispered back. I don’t know what he gave me, but it was some good sh*t. I should try to find out what it was.

After a short stay in the recovery room, I was wheeled back to my non-private cubicle. The nurse retrieved The Best Husband from the waiting room. I had this huge plastic bandage over the surgery site. It kinda reminded me of the plastic-wrapped paper you find under a piece of meat in the grocery store package. Yes, my mind works in mysterious ways. The nurse told me I was not to remove the bandage. So I could not shower. Again. Geez. This is getting old. She also unraveled this long plastic tube sticking out of a new hole in my boob and attached was a plastic bulb. A drain. Something I thought I would have had after the first surgery. She shows The Best Husband how it works, tells us to empty the bulb every 12 hours or so, and record the amount of serum that has collected in the bulb. Oh, goodie. The Best Husband immediately dubbed it the Christmas Boob Ornament. Of course he talked about keeping it as a souvenir. I told him I already had enough souvenirs from this experience.

Oh, did I tell you that The Best Daughter was scheduled to get her tonsils out over Christmas break? Just another thing that The Best Husband had to deal with. I think he spent more time in doctor’s offices, hospitals and surgery centers in 2011 than the entire 27 years of our marriage. You know how the marriage vows say “for better or worse, in sickness and in health?”  We had never witnessed so much “worse” or “sickness” before. But he handled it like a trooper. He took The Best Daughter for her tonsillectomy on Dec 22^nd while I sat home on the couch. Then he cared for the both of us over the Christmas break. I was home from work the entire time.  Boring.

I was getting worried because I still had Christmas shopping to do. Finally, Christmas Eve I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. Right, silly. It’s Christmas Eve! I stuffed the girls and the Christmas Boob Ornament into one of the sports bras and drove to Wal-Mart. Probably not the best decision on Christmas Eve, but I was desperate. I did manage to order a present for The Best Husband over the internet, and luckily I was able to pick it up on Christmas Eve. Things were coming together. Thank goodness.

Christmas morning. Drain the Christmas Boob Ornament. Get some coffee. Settle in on the couch. Let the paper ripping begin! Oh, look, footy pajamas. Not just any footy pajamas. Pink camouflage. And comfy, warm slippers. We unwrapped for at least two hours. Even the dogs got in on the act.  This was the first year that my sister hadn’t come to spend the night on Christmas Eve. Felt really odd. But this had been an odd end to 2011, so it seemed to fit right in. Sister and her boyfriend were expected over mid-morning for more present opening and dinner. I don’t even recall what we had for dinner on Christmas. That’s pathetic.

Two days after Christmas, it’s back to the boob doctor. I expected him to look at the sheet where we had been diligently recording the boob drainage and promptly tell me that the Christmas Boob Ornament had to stay in for a little longer. Nope. He barely even glanced at it. We had drained over 1000 cc of serum in one week. Didn't seem to care. Said the drain had to come out sometime, and that sometime was now. First, though, the removal of the bandage that was starting to itch like crazy and the stitches. Ouch.  I asked if he was going to give a little numbing medicine before he removed the Christmas Boob Ornament. Every time I go to the boob doctor, they hurt me. I never know what level of pain I will have to endure during my visits. It’s getting old. No wonder my blood pressure is always out of control. Anyway, Dr. C. says no, it will only sting a little bit. Like he knows? When was the last time someone pulled a drain tube out of him? Probably never. So, yeah, it stung. More than a little bit. I was happy to get rid of the Christmas Boob Ornament, though, so I only whimpered a little bit. No tears. If there were tears, they were happy tears because now I could go home and take a shower! First though, I stopped in at my office to see how things were going and check my email. Only took me 2 hours to clean out my inbox. What a pain.