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

I continue my chemo narrative…
8 days, 14 hours, 45 minutes

The day of chemo I awaken at 4:00am. I don’t mind so much. I’ve always been an early morning person, but admit I would prefer my early morning started at least after 5:30am.

I try to do my usual: cuppa jo (or three), journal (what color pen do I feel like using this morning?) and read Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditation. I skip Heather Cox’s Richardson’s daily, “Letter from an American” because, frankly, watching what is happening to the country is just too upsetting for one already full of upset.

Well, nice try on the routine. I can’t concentrate and instead focus on talking to Ruthie, my cat. She reminds me that her food dish is empty and she will probably die NOW if I don’t feed her.

My beloved partner, Tom, is also up tending to his morning routine. He needs to take Ginger for her walk; it’s going to be a long day for her as well since we will be gone all day.

Breakfast is a simple affair: Hard-boiled eggs, oatmeal. Maybe a smoothie if I feel like cleaning out the blender afterwards. Soon swallowing food may become very unpleasant.

Mayo encourages eating breakfast prior to chemo. Far be it from me to refuse feeding time.

I swallow two more steroid pills. I mentally tick off another milestone-I am halfway through taking these.

Shit, where did the morning go? It is now 6:45am. Time to slather my port with a prescription numbing cream. I slap some plastic wrap over it. The v-neck sweatshirt provides easy access to the port.

“Ready?” Tom asks. “Hell no,” I reply.

There go those damn drumbeats again. It’s 7:00am. Showtime.

Goodbye scritches for Ginger. We leave the TV on low for her to help keep her company.

Paxman, check. Backpack, check. Snackies from fridge, check.

It’s about a 25-minute drive to Mayo. I am grateful it’s in the equivalent of being in my backyard when I consider people travel from around the world to go to Mayo.

While I am writing this, I can’t resist looking once again: 8 days, 15 hours, 45 minutes.

Check in time at Mayo is 7:45am. I report to the front desk and Tom and I are both issued stickers to wear, showing our patient/visitor status.

“Yes, we know where we are going,” we tell the people at the main reception.

Elevators to the left, we’re heading to the 3rd floor. Faaaaaak. I hate this. I hate cancer. I hate the fucking hospital. I hate the waiting room. I hate wearing a smile when I want to scream and cry and make all this go away.

But I smile anyway. Exchange small talk with the gal manning the front desk of the infusion center.

“Have a lovely day,” I say to her as Tom and I head to the waiting area. There’s a big area out front or a more private one behind a closed door. We always chose the more private one.

The waiting area is as comfortable as one can be. On a table is knitted beanies-a gift for the taking, one per patient, please. There are also some homemade cards with words of encouragement.

There is a stockpile of water bottles and juices on another counter. I head over and grab a water bottle. As much as I hate water in plastic water bottles because of the environmental impact, I am committed to draining four of them while I infuse.

“Miss Winn?” “Please, it’s Theresa,” I reply.

The nurse and I make small talk while she leads me into a small room filled with pokey things and a chair.

Don’t fail me, numbing cream, I offer a silent prayer.

While she readies supplies to connect the plumbing to my port we chat.

“Do you ever get afraid of getting cancer?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” she says.

One thing I have learned is that cancer is an equal opportunity disease. It doesn’t matter if you’re an oncology nurse, a young mom, an aged grouch.

I learn my nurse has been an oncology nurse for several years. She tells me she enjoys her job because the patients are so enjoyable to work with.

Cancer hits nice people too. I add that to my list of those vulnerable to malignancies.

The moment I’ve been waiting for has arrived.

She wipes off the numbing cream and then swabs the area with an antiseptic.

Aaaaaaand, I feel nothing. I can feel my butt unclench.

Tape secures the tubing hanging from my clavicle. I feel like a Christmas tree after it’s been undecorated except for some stubborn ornament and tinsel that are still dangling.

I watch the vacuum tube fill with my blood. She finishes and wishes me luck.

I join Tom back in the waiting room. There’s now another couple in there. A scared looking woman in a turban and presumably her spouse.
We have a two hour wait now. My blood work is order stat-that’s right now, dammit, in medical parlance. I feel perfectly fine but that doesn’t mean my blood counts and metabolic metrics are all hunky dory.

If things are too out of line, there will be no chemo.

We get a niblet from the cafeteria and while we’re sharing a bagel, my phone dings. Ah! A message from Mayo. The lab results are in.

I’m getting better at it but I am still triggered with anxiety whenever I see message notification from Mayo.

To my untrained eye, all looks good. I was once a nurse, but it’s been many, many moons. There are a handful of areas that I’m outside the range of normal….but not hugely. I take this to be good news.

We make our way to the next step of the program, an appointment with the nurse practitioner. I check in an hour early and Tom and I sit. The waiting room is filling up fast. Most people are lost in their phones. There are other couples that just sit, staring blankly.

One man is in a wheelchair and looks especially frail.

No one, and I mean NO ONE, wants to be here. It’s nothing personal, Mayo staff.

I get called 15 minutes before my scheduled time. Yay.

A very sweet lady walks us back. First stop. The scale. Oh fuck. I have gained 14 pounds since this nightmare started. The nurse assures me it’s okay even though I want to scream, NO, IT’S NOT!

I worked damn hard a few years ago to lose 50 pounds and I do not want to gain it back. Calm down, I tell myself. Just get through treatment.

In the room, she takes my vitals. All is well. Never mind Ativan is probably helping my BP stay within normal limits, but whatever.

Jane, the oncology nurse practitioner, taps on the door.

What would she do if I told her to go away? I’m going home. Fuck this cancer shit, I’m outta here.

“C’mon in,” I reply. Little Miss Tough Gal puts on a smile, of course I wouldn’t say what my imagine would like to say.

“Things look good,” she says. Our regularly scheduled program will continue.

I pause from my writing. 6 days, 17 hours, 34 minutes.