Here's What It's Like To Get Chemo

My final round of chemo is coming up. As of this moment and according to my countdown app it’s in 8 days, 16 hours and 54 minutes. But who’s counting, right?

As far as treatment is concerned I’m one of the lucky ones. There is no detectable cancer in my body since having my bilateral boobectomy. Nodes were clean, stage was one. The four rounds of chemo are to mop up any rogue cells that might be floating around as well as to prevent recurrence. The need for chemo became more apparent when the genetics of one of the tumors showed a more aggressive tendency. (I had a total of three tumors, one in the left breast, two in the other.)

Some women aren’t so lucky. They are looking at a year or more of chemo, radiation, surgery and hormone treatment. So as I write these words, I am aware of my “easier” path. But it is far from easy.

I’ve had a 12-week course prescribed for me, 3 weeks apart, 4 rounds. My fellow breast cancer sisters know what I mean when I say 4 TC. That means four rounds of two chemotherapeutic agents: Docetaxel and Cytoxan. I also get a round of Neulasta the next day. The Neulasta isn’t chemo-it’s to stimulate white blood cell production after the chemo has done its dirty work to the immune system.

It’s a pretty standard treatment for early-stage breast cancer.

Ready for a glimpse?

Chemo day starts long before the actual day. It feels like my own personal Bataan Death March. I try to live in the present moment but it is fucking hard to not have growing dread. My app now tells it is now 8 days, 16 hours, and 38 minutes away. But again, who’s counting?

The morning before chemo day, I take two steroid pills with my usual vitamins. I also start dosing up on Claritin, an antihistamine. The Claritin is to help mitigate bone pain side effects of the Neulasta.

I pause. It’s time for a decision. Do I set out the “Chemo Camp” supplies now or later? I usually keep all that shit behind a closed door between appointments because it reminds me of what I’m going through-and I don’t need anymore reminders on my already taxed nervous system.

Being an organizer, I plan ahead. I chose to begin amassing supplies after lunch. I’ll keep the countertop free until then and pretend it’s just another normal day. La,la,la,I can’t HEAR you breast cancer!

My planning anxiety takes over. I pull out the supplies. The Paxman Cooling cap bag has the cap and all the stuff needed to put my scalp in a deep freeze during the infusion. There’s a hairbrush, a Ziploc baggie of unscented conditioner (I like to travel light and prefer this over packing the bottle), and a hairband to protect my forehead.

My backpack contains sandwiches and snacks. These won’t send out potentially nauseating food smells to my fellow cancer sojourners. I stuff my knitted prayer shawl in the bag. This was a gift from the chaplain and volunteer knitters who make these. I bring it as a reminder of all the love and prayers people have given upon me.

My notebook and a few pens are also standard in every Chemo Camp kit. And a little rock with the word Hope engraved. Another gift from the chaplain.

Next, I pick out my outfit and place it on top of my dresser. It’s going to be an early morning the next day and the fewer decisions I need to make in the morning, the better.

There is another decision. Do I want to wear an outfit I feel empowered in and “normal” or sloppy but comfortable sweats?

I chose the sweats for two reasons. One, my sister got them for me, so I imagine her love for me. And two, the oncology unit is chilly. Add the cold cap and it’s a polar experience.

And feeling empowered? I think I could don a suit of armor and still feel very vulnerable. After all, I will be tethered into place by both the cooling cap and an IV flowing into the port underneath my skin at my right clavicle.

I chose fuzzy socks that read “love and peace.” These were part of a care kit my coworkers gifted me with before surgery.

So even my tootsies are wrapped in love.

My stuff is assembled. Is that a drum beat I hear? Stop it, Theresa.

It is now the afternoon. I will need to take two more steroid pills. I want to be sure to take it before 5:00 because it could affect my already affected sleep.

I should eat something. And now I have a picture of Da Vinci’s Last Supper flash through my mind.

Good Lord, I can be dramatic.

It’s time for .5 milligrams of Ativan because the anxiety is growing. Is it 7pm yet? Since my cancer diagnosis I have been going to bed ridiculously early because by then, I need to make my world get small.

It’s 6:50pm. Close enough. Good night world.

8 days, 16 hours, and 7 minutes to go.

To be continued…