Chemo #2

You healthy people don't know what you're missing!  In the infusion room, they give you blankets straight from the warmer, and volunteers come around and offer to massage your hands or feet.  And they have board games!  Last time, Jeff brought over Risk (it was covered in dust) but I made him swap it for Yahtzee.  I may have terrible luck with medical stuff but I have amazing luck with the dice.  It's always a celebration when you manage to beat Jeff at anything.

So what exactly happens at chemo?  First a nurse accesses my port and takes a blood sample.  Then the doctor or nurse practitioner takes my vitals and reviews my symptoms, and we agree that I still have cancer.  As soon as my white blood cell count has been reviewed, I stop by the in-house pharmacy and take a very expensive anti-nausea pill that Jeff spends five minutes removing from the impenetrable package.  I take a seat in the infusion room, and a nurse gives me saline, steroids, and the first chemo medication.  Then the last chemo medication is manually injected into my IV; it's fire engine red and turns my urine the color of cherry Kool-Aid (and supposedly my tears as well).  They disconnect me and I'm sent on my merry way.  The whole process takes about four hours.

Then the fun begins.  Nausea.  (The medications keep you from vomiting, but I did have to resort to rubbing lemon slices under my nose last time.)  Bone pain from the Neulasta (I wear a needle patch on my stomach that injects me the following day to boost my white blood cell count).  Fatigue.  Stomach cramps.  Thrush.  Dehydration.  Low blood pressure.  I fainted while getting labs drawn last week, and suddenly I was lying on the floor with an emergency response team crowded into the phlebotomist's office.  Now whenever the phlebotomist calls my name in the waiting room, she yells, "Oh no!  Not you again!"  My legs gave out once at home, and my mom panicked and bought me a beautiful teak shower chair that Jeff now uses as his toothbrushing bench.  I also fell backwards into the bathtub two days ago, but I attribute that to clumsiness rather than the chemo.  I have yet to experience mouth sores or neuropathy, but there's always next week.  Chemo brain has also taken hold (similar to Mom brain), but I've been assured that it will improve in a few years if I do Sudoku regularly.  And of course, hair loss.  It's easy to spot the newbies.

Two down, fourteen to go!