Here's What It's Like To Get Chemo-Part Three

I am now less than one week from my final chemo. That’s 5 days, 18 hours, 53 minutes.

Yesterday was my birthday so I’m trying to regard finishing chemo as a big ole birthday gift. But yeah, that requires some mental gymnastics to hold that space.

I know what’s coming…

The nurse fetches me from the waiting room. Tom and I follow him through the space age feeling infusion center. It reminds me of the Borg scenes from Star Trek-Next Generation.

Oh goody. Today, we get a more private cubbie.

After repeating my birthdate to the nurse and another nurse, they have confirmed my identity. I swear from now on, anytime someone asks for my name, I will automatically tell them my date of birth.

There’s a recliner for me and an uncomfortable chair for Tom.

First order of business is to go to head to the bathroom so I can wet my hair down. Then I goop conditioner on it. This prevents my soon to be frozen hair from breaking off when it is time to remove the cap.

I return to the cubicle, drippy. Tom and another nurse help me get the cap on. It’s important to have full scalp contact with the cap. It saves the follicles so even if there is a lot of hair loss, it will grow back more quickly.

It is not fun. It’s like having a weighted blanket wrapped around your noggin and then clamped down. And I am now tethered to a refrigeration unit too.

It’s time to turn the unit on. Oh, holy shit, this hurts. It’s like the worst ice cream headache without the butter pecan. I know it will pass within 15 minutes.

In the meantime, the nurse has plugged me into the IV. Just some steroids first. I will need to literally chill out for 30 minutes prior to getting this first drug.

“Would you like a heated blanket?” the nurse asks. Oh, yes, please.

It’s time to breathe. I can do this, I tell myself.

“Would you like coffee?” Tom asks. I decline. I don’t need more caffeine adding to my anxiety. I make a little game out of drinking the water bottles. I want to help my body process all the drugs as quickly as possible.

It’s now time for the Cytoxan. Is that skull and crossbones I see on the bag? The nurse brings in another nurse. Yep. It’s still Theresa. Yup, birthday checks out. And yep, it’s the right drug.

It takes 30 minutes for this to drip into my veins. Then the nurse flushes the line, and it’s time for the Docetaxel.

How I hate this. I fucking hate this. Someone please wake me from this nightmare. I am in a chemo unit at Mayo Hospital. This is NOT what life was supposed to look like.

Tom is offering a snackie to me but I was lost in my dark thoughts.

The Docetaxel is now infusing. It will take an hour.

The chemo itself doesn’t hurt at all. I was afraid I would feel every toxic molecule irritating my blood vessels, but that is not the case.

After the infusion, it is now time to sit for another 90 minutes with the cold cap. I am so eager to be finished but also want to keep as much hair on my head as possible. I know it’s “only hair” and “it will grow back” but this is more than just about keeping hair. It’s a desperate grab for some sense of power in a powerless situation.

I don’t want to look like a cancer patient. I don’t want to be one of those women you see out in public wearing a turban and you feel a wave of pity for them. I. Don’t. Want. This.

So I sit, capped like an oil well on a Montana plain.

The nurse is disconnecting me from the IV. She swabs the area once again before placing a dressing over it.

She also slaps an auto injector thing of Neulasta on my tummy. It reminds me of wall phone jack. (Remember those?) The thing pokes me. It feels like a mild rubber band snap. Then…nothing. There is a blinking green diode, so I feel like a ticking time bomb.

The device will pump the drug into me the next day. It’s to build up my white blood cells after they’ve been kicked around by the chemo.

When the magic moment finally appears, Tom turns off the machine. Then he helps loosen the bungee cords. We pull the cap off. My hair is frozen. And for doing a lot of sitting on my ass, I am exhausted.

I can hardly wait to get outside into the desert heat.

We bid goodbye to the nursing staff. The actual chemo part of the Chemo Camp has concluded.

It’s time to head home and take dose number two of today’s steroid. The party is just getting started.

5 days, 18 hours, 10 minutes.

Theresa Winn is a certified life coach and spiritual director. She confuses people because can talk about God and cuss in the same sentence. (“WTF, God?!) If you find this article help, please clap, share, subscribe, or send a Lear jet to whisk her away to the Bahamas.