Treatment number five occurred during Thanksgiving week. Of utmost importance to oncologists everywhere is that once chemotherapy treatments start, they happen on schedule. A holiday on Thursday would in no way impact a treatment slated for Monday of that same week, even if said treatment would render the patient completely useless in preparing the Big Holiday Meal to give thanks for all God's blessings.
Even though Patrick was initially in favor of buying a pre-made dinner for Thanksgiving, the kids and I pleaded for him to cook a turkey and make an attempt at providing our traditional celebratory meal. He agreed, and with the help of our two teen-aged daughters, and his willing sister-in-law, we feasted like kings.
Post-treatment Thursdays--holiday or not--found me mostly in bed for the day. I do remember wandering out to the kitchen from time to time, hoping to be of some help with the meal prep, but in fact just making everyone nervous. They ushered me back to my bed.
I began to think of the post-chemo "recovery" time as merely preparation for the upcoming treatment week instead. Usually during the week following a treatment I was feeling well-enough to get myself to the clinic for pump removal, neupogen shots, I.V. hydration and/or iron infusions. I visited the clinic two, three, or even four times each "recovery" week. Sometimes there were appointments with other docs to squeeze in, too.
My oncologist was concerned about the light-sensitivity I was experiencing. She feared that oxaliplatin might be damaging my optic nerve. To rule that out, she asked that I make an appointment with an ophthalmologist.
Here's how that went:
Eye Doc: So. You're a cancer patient?
Me: Yep
Eye Doc: And you're on what?
Me: oxaliplatin
Eye Doc: As part of your treatment?
Me, now losing confidence: Yep
Eye Doc: Spell that for me.
Me: o-x-a-l-i-p-l-a-t-i-n
Eye Doc: Never heard of that. Let's do a visual field test.
Me: mmmkay
He left. Someone else ushered me into another room and took my glasses. I sat while a blurry person in a lab coat explained how to run the test to a bystander. This took approximately 37 hours.
Lab Coat person then gave me an eye patch and instructed me to cover my left eye, then peer into the machine and to stare ONLY at the bright light, there just above the blankness. Don't even think about letting your eyeball wander around looking at the nothingness inside the box. Nothingness is Not Important, and you shouldn't Look at it. We're testing PERIPHERAL vision here. Control your eyeball, please.
The test began and my job was to STARE ONLY AT THE LIGHT with one eye, while noticing if there might be other lights blinking in various other places, at various brightnesses, inside the giant box of nothingness. Also, there would be no wiggling! Each time I noticed a light, I was to push a button on a handy little device they call a "clicker". It took about three minutes to execute all of the clicks.
Next: Repeat with The Left Eye, get directed to another room, wait for Eye Doc.
Eye Doc came back and he asked a bunch of questions, then strapped a contraption to his head that includes a billion-watt light bulb. Did he forget that I was there because I can't stand bright lights??? He came at me with the Death Ray and I was supposed to keep my eyes open while he studied my optic nerve. In both eyes! What?! Each eyelid in turn tried valiantly to protect me by slamming shut, as that terrible beam bore right into my brain. Eye Doc and his Death Ray prevailed eventually and the inspection was accomplished.
He shut off the light, and removed his head gear, leaving me blind in both eyes. Not "blind-blind", but all I could see was the imprint on my retina of his big, stupid light.
Then, guess what he said? He said, "Everything looks fine. This can happen with oxaliplatin. Now get out of my office you whiner, and don't come back, ever." He didn't use those exact words. But you know, I could tell what he meant.
He also said, in effect, "Here's a prescription for eye drops that may or may not help. People expect to get something when they visit a doctor, and so I will give you this prescription because I am a doctor. Be sure not to use the drops more than twice a day or you will attract flying wildebeest. Have a nice day."
So, the important part: optic nerve = O.K. I did not avail myself of the eye drops. The prescription remained unfilled. I figured that I had enough problems without taking a chance on attracting flying wildebeest.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Friday, May 8, 2015
Treatment #4 in Which Oxaliplatin is Reduced
Treatment number four saw the return of oxaliplatin to the chemo mix. Starting with this session, I would receive 20% less oxaliplatin than the original amount. My oncologist assured me that 80% was "still a theraputic dose". I found myself thinking that the only thing worse than being on chemotherapy was not being able to tolerate chemotherapy, and thus being off chemotherapy.
This day's pre-treatment labs indicated that the liver enzymes went from "five times normal" two weeks prior, to "normal" now. I mentally congratulated my liver for bouncing back, but my liver was no longer speaking to me.
Mention was made of spots on my lungs that appeared on September's CT-scan, which was taken the day before surgery. My oncologist compared those images to some taken prior to a series of kidney surgeries that happened to me a year earlier. She asked me several times if I had suffered a violent coughing fit, or any type of lung infection. I was sure that I hadn't experienced the latter, but the former was at least more likely. I did try, but I couldn't remember any prior medical issues aside from those caused by the huge, bilateral kidney stones.
While in the treatment room my "next-chair neighbor" pointed out that I must be like her in that the steroid we're all routinely dosed with at the start of a treatment makes us jumpy. This week, the two most spun-up patients were sitting right next to each other. Non-stop yammering ensued. We couldn't help it. Other patients around the room were under blankets, dozing from their meds. They couldn't help it either, I am sure.
Here's an excerpt from the email update I sent out during the "recovery week" after chemo #4:
Sent: Mon, Nov 18, 2013 at 9:29 AM
This past week at home I felt weak and more tired than usual. I had a fever over the weekend, and prayed that it wouldn't reach the danger-zone, so that I could avoid a trip to the E.R. I was miserable, but did avoid that trip, (Thanks be to God!). Treatment #4 brought lingering neck pain, mouth sores, and other stuff that I'm choosing to forget. Suffice to say, it was a crummy week.
Chemotherapy's side-effects were building, just as I had been warned that they would. If it meant a cure from colon cancer though, I was willing to endure whatever I could. I prayed a lot, and asked for prayers a lot, too. After this fourth treatment, I was officially one-third of the way through the infusions. Keeping that in mind made me optimistic for the future.
Staying connected to friends and family via the blast-o-gram email updates kept me sane. Having help with child-care and meals allowed me to rest and heal. Being told "You're amazing," by my husband helped, too even though I couldn't fathom what he possibly meant by the word "amazing".
I felt like a tired, nauseated, jumble of painful nerve endings for four out of every fourteen days. The remaining ten days between treatments saw slow improvement of symptoms, just in time for the next chemo smack-down. Even so, the end of chemo was in sight. It was a long way off, but I believed I would make it to treatment number twelve and then recover not only from cancer, but also from chemotherapy.
This day's pre-treatment labs indicated that the liver enzymes went from "five times normal" two weeks prior, to "normal" now. I mentally congratulated my liver for bouncing back, but my liver was no longer speaking to me.
Mention was made of spots on my lungs that appeared on September's CT-scan, which was taken the day before surgery. My oncologist compared those images to some taken prior to a series of kidney surgeries that happened to me a year earlier. She asked me several times if I had suffered a violent coughing fit, or any type of lung infection. I was sure that I hadn't experienced the latter, but the former was at least more likely. I did try, but I couldn't remember any prior medical issues aside from those caused by the huge, bilateral kidney stones.
While in the treatment room my "next-chair neighbor" pointed out that I must be like her in that the steroid we're all routinely dosed with at the start of a treatment makes us jumpy. This week, the two most spun-up patients were sitting right next to each other. Non-stop yammering ensued. We couldn't help it. Other patients around the room were under blankets, dozing from their meds. They couldn't help it either, I am sure.
Here's an excerpt from the email update I sent out during the "recovery week" after chemo #4:
Sent: Mon, Nov 18, 2013 at 9:29 AM
This past week at home I felt weak and more tired than usual. I had a fever over the weekend, and prayed that it wouldn't reach the danger-zone, so that I could avoid a trip to the E.R. I was miserable, but did avoid that trip, (Thanks be to God!). Treatment #4 brought lingering neck pain, mouth sores, and other stuff that I'm choosing to forget. Suffice to say, it was a crummy week.
Chemotherapy's side-effects were building, just as I had been warned that they would. If it meant a cure from colon cancer though, I was willing to endure whatever I could. I prayed a lot, and asked for prayers a lot, too. After this fourth treatment, I was officially one-third of the way through the infusions. Keeping that in mind made me optimistic for the future.
Staying connected to friends and family via the blast-o-gram email updates kept me sane. Having help with child-care and meals allowed me to rest and heal. Being told "You're amazing," by my husband helped, too even though I couldn't fathom what he possibly meant by the word "amazing".
I felt like a tired, nauseated, jumble of painful nerve endings for four out of every fourteen days. The remaining ten days between treatments saw slow improvement of symptoms, just in time for the next chemo smack-down. Even so, the end of chemo was in sight. It was a long way off, but I believed I would make it to treatment number twelve and then recover not only from cancer, but also from chemotherapy.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Treatment #3: Liver Ultrasound
Upon awakening from my post-infusion nap after treatment number three, I dutifully made an appointment for a liver ultrasound as my oncologist had recommended. It would happen three days later, on Halloween morning.
Two days after infusion, a Wednesday, I went to the clinic to get the pump disconnected. The doc spoke again of liver enzymes, and the promise of another Neupogen shot (or shots) next week to ensure that my blood was in good shape for treatment #4. Her plan was to reduce the oxaliplatin by 20% for the next treatment to see if my liver would tolerate it better at a lower dose.
That evening I was feeling good enough to attempt a short journey to a nearby church. Walking to morning Mass had been part of the boys' and my daily routine all summer long. Usually we spent the time it took to reach our destination discussing Pokemon. Sometimes we'd talk about Minecraft, but mostly it was Pokemon all the way (and back). We'd pause to capture tiny toads if we saw any, or to marvel at various bugs along the way. New construction in the neighborhood almost made us late more than once. To keep us moving, I'd always promise to stop (and we did) on the way back, when we had more time for observation. I missed those walks terribly. Since Patrick was willing to accompany me that evening, we tested whether eight weeks of healing up from surgery would allow the trip.
It was a slow trek, but I made the two-mile round trip without falling over, and without too much pain. Success!
The next morning I showed up at the hospital for the ultrasound and was "fast-tracked" to radiology. One of the great things about this test was that virtually no prep was required of me--no drinking vast amounts of water, as for a pregnancy ultrasound, and no barium slurries, like a CT and PET require. Easy peasy.
Once I was on the exam table, the next forty minutes went like this:
Radiology tech: Take a breath and hold it.
Me: [taking a breath and holding it for ten to twenty seconds]
Radiology tech H.: Breathe [moves and pushes the ultrasound probe around my abdomen] Take a breath and hold it.
Me: [taking a breath and holding it for ten to twenty seconds]
Radiology tech H.: Breathe.
...and repeat over and over and OVER.
At one point I was asked to turn toward the screen. The screen was filled with swirls of various shades of gray that made no sense to me, except that I was able to discern that the solid white spot on the screen indicated a kidney stone. I was only able to make this impressive observation because the tech had typed the word "kidney" and that too, appeared on the screen. I asked her to add my urologist to the long list of doctors that would eventually receive the radiologist's report.
The tech printed off some of the scans and told me she'd "be right back". In this case, the phrase, "be right back" meant, "I'll be back in twenty-five minutes." I remained on the exam table, breathing at my leisure. When she finally did return, she gave me the O.K. to get dressed and leave.
Freedom!
That night, I experienced stabbing pains unlike any I had ever had before. Was it the result of the pushing and probing from the ultrasound? Could it have been due to the previous day's walk? Did I develop a hernia? Something else? Patrick and kids 3, 4, and 5 went trick-or-treating. Kid 1 was on candy-doling assignment, while kid 2 took off with a friend for places unknown. I spent Halloween night camped in the recliner blankly staring at the T.V. screen, trying not to move.
Two days after infusion, a Wednesday, I went to the clinic to get the pump disconnected. The doc spoke again of liver enzymes, and the promise of another Neupogen shot (or shots) next week to ensure that my blood was in good shape for treatment #4. Her plan was to reduce the oxaliplatin by 20% for the next treatment to see if my liver would tolerate it better at a lower dose.
That evening I was feeling good enough to attempt a short journey to a nearby church. Walking to morning Mass had been part of the boys' and my daily routine all summer long. Usually we spent the time it took to reach our destination discussing Pokemon. Sometimes we'd talk about Minecraft, but mostly it was Pokemon all the way (and back). We'd pause to capture tiny toads if we saw any, or to marvel at various bugs along the way. New construction in the neighborhood almost made us late more than once. To keep us moving, I'd always promise to stop (and we did) on the way back, when we had more time for observation. I missed those walks terribly. Since Patrick was willing to accompany me that evening, we tested whether eight weeks of healing up from surgery would allow the trip.
It was a slow trek, but I made the two-mile round trip without falling over, and without too much pain. Success!
The next morning I showed up at the hospital for the ultrasound and was "fast-tracked" to radiology. One of the great things about this test was that virtually no prep was required of me--no drinking vast amounts of water, as for a pregnancy ultrasound, and no barium slurries, like a CT and PET require. Easy peasy.
Once I was on the exam table, the next forty minutes went like this:
Radiology tech: Take a breath and hold it.
Me: [taking a breath and holding it for ten to twenty seconds]
Radiology tech H.: Breathe [moves and pushes the ultrasound probe around my abdomen] Take a breath and hold it.
Me: [taking a breath and holding it for ten to twenty seconds]
Radiology tech H.: Breathe.
...and repeat over and over and OVER.
At one point I was asked to turn toward the screen. The screen was filled with swirls of various shades of gray that made no sense to me, except that I was able to discern that the solid white spot on the screen indicated a kidney stone. I was only able to make this impressive observation because the tech had typed the word "kidney" and that too, appeared on the screen. I asked her to add my urologist to the long list of doctors that would eventually receive the radiologist's report.
The tech printed off some of the scans and told me she'd "be right back". In this case, the phrase, "be right back" meant, "I'll be back in twenty-five minutes." I remained on the exam table, breathing at my leisure. When she finally did return, she gave me the O.K. to get dressed and leave.
Freedom!
That night, I experienced stabbing pains unlike any I had ever had before. Was it the result of the pushing and probing from the ultrasound? Could it have been due to the previous day's walk? Did I develop a hernia? Something else? Patrick and kids 3, 4, and 5 went trick-or-treating. Kid 1 was on candy-doling assignment, while kid 2 took off with a friend for places unknown. I spent Halloween night camped in the recliner blankly staring at the T.V. screen, trying not to move.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Treatment #3: The Liver Protests
Treatment number three happened on the last Monday of October, 2013. Patrick and I arrived at the clinic on a bright, sunny morning. After the routine pre-treatment tests, my liver enzymes were found to be "five times more than normal". Because of that, the new drug (Avastin) was delayed again. The doc decided also to omit from today's "recipe" the drug she suspected as the cause of the liver toxicity, oxaliplatin.
FOLFOX is the short-hand way of referencing the chemo regimen I was on. "FOL" for folinic acid (leucovorin), "F" for fluorouricil (5FU), and "OX" for oxaliplatin. My time in the infusion chair would be shorter that day, since the oxaliplatin would be skipped.
An order for an ultrasound of the liver was written and presented to me with the instruction, "Please have this done as soon as possible". I tucked away the order and made a mental note to call the hospital later that day.
Off to the infusion room. BP was taken, port accessed (no drama!), and meds started to drip. Once I was settled, my oncologist came by to discuss my liver. It was an unsatisfying conversation. Unlike the fields I had worked in (programming and engineering), medicine is not at all cut-and-dried, especially when it comes to cancer treatment. Human biology plus pharmacology equals...well, we would have to just wait and see. The hope was that my liver enzymes would stabilize after a two-week break.
"Maybe oxaliplatin could be added back in next time..." the doctor seemed to be thinking out loud when she suddenly stopped short and called out, "Can someone get a tissue?" She spied a nickel-sized, hairy spider (!!!) on my sweater, just above where the port and its connected infusion hardware sat.
After a second or two of no response to her request, the doctor whacked the beast away with her prescription pad (Yikes! Don't forget the harpoon there...). It was a jumping spider, and it disappeared to who-knows-where. We briefly tried to find it, but it was well-hidden. Just then, the requested tissues showed up. We resumed our liver conversation and as that was wrapping up, the little monster crawled back onto my arm. GAH! "There it is!" declared the Good Doctor as she scooped it up, tossed it to the floor, and crushed it under her venerable shoe in one fell swoop.
I squeaked, "Spiders are good luck, right?"
"Yes, I think that's right," she laughed. The lady in the next chair over, who witnessed the whole scene, congratulated me for not trying to dart out of the chair. I then remembered last week's iron infusion, and was glad that I had stayed put this time.
Hours later, I was disconnected from the infusion pump, and attached to the portable one. We were sent on our way.
Oxaliplatin's absence was immediately obvious. There was no sensitivity to cold, no shards-of-glass feelings in my fingers, and no numbness! I even imagined the possibility of ice cream, sweet bliss.
Once home, I collapsed onto my bed. As I lay there, drifting off to sleep, I had a conversation with my liver:
Me: Liver? Haven't I been good to you?
My Liver: Yeah. I guess.
Me: Barely any alcohol, ever.
My Liver: mmm-Hmmm
Me: No smoking. No illicit drugs. Hardly any meds until now...
My Liver: Yep
Me: I guess chemo is no picnic...sorry about that.
My Liver: You don't know that half of it, lady.
Me: Good luck, Liver. [Yawnnn] I hope you bounce back.
My Liver: Stop talking to me, you freak.
Me: zzzzz
FOLFOX is the short-hand way of referencing the chemo regimen I was on. "FOL" for folinic acid (leucovorin), "F" for fluorouricil (5FU), and "OX" for oxaliplatin. My time in the infusion chair would be shorter that day, since the oxaliplatin would be skipped.
An order for an ultrasound of the liver was written and presented to me with the instruction, "Please have this done as soon as possible". I tucked away the order and made a mental note to call the hospital later that day.
Off to the infusion room. BP was taken, port accessed (no drama!), and meds started to drip. Once I was settled, my oncologist came by to discuss my liver. It was an unsatisfying conversation. Unlike the fields I had worked in (programming and engineering), medicine is not at all cut-and-dried, especially when it comes to cancer treatment. Human biology plus pharmacology equals...well, we would have to just wait and see. The hope was that my liver enzymes would stabilize after a two-week break.
"Maybe oxaliplatin could be added back in next time..." the doctor seemed to be thinking out loud when she suddenly stopped short and called out, "Can someone get a tissue?" She spied a nickel-sized, hairy spider (!!!) on my sweater, just above where the port and its connected infusion hardware sat.
After a second or two of no response to her request, the doctor whacked the beast away with her prescription pad (Yikes! Don't forget the harpoon there...). It was a jumping spider, and it disappeared to who-knows-where. We briefly tried to find it, but it was well-hidden. Just then, the requested tissues showed up. We resumed our liver conversation and as that was wrapping up, the little monster crawled back onto my arm. GAH! "There it is!" declared the Good Doctor as she scooped it up, tossed it to the floor, and crushed it under her venerable shoe in one fell swoop.
I squeaked, "Spiders are good luck, right?"
"Yes, I think that's right," she laughed. The lady in the next chair over, who witnessed the whole scene, congratulated me for not trying to dart out of the chair. I then remembered last week's iron infusion, and was glad that I had stayed put this time.
Hours later, I was disconnected from the infusion pump, and attached to the portable one. We were sent on our way.
Oxaliplatin's absence was immediately obvious. There was no sensitivity to cold, no shards-of-glass feelings in my fingers, and no numbness! I even imagined the possibility of ice cream, sweet bliss.
Once home, I collapsed onto my bed. As I lay there, drifting off to sleep, I had a conversation with my liver:
Me: Liver? Haven't I been good to you?
My Liver: Yeah. I guess.
Me: Barely any alcohol, ever.
My Liver: mmm-Hmmm
Me: No smoking. No illicit drugs. Hardly any meds until now...
My Liver: Yep
Me: I guess chemo is no picnic...sorry about that.
My Liver: You don't know that half of it, lady.
Me: Good luck, Liver. [Yawnnn] I hope you bounce back.
My Liver: Stop talking to me, you freak.
Me: zzzzz
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Neupogen Spells More Pain
Treatment for cancer was taking up more time than I ever expected. I was in the middle of my second "recovery week", and had medical appointments on four of the five weekdays. On Thursday, I went to the clinic for a Neupogen injection.
My oncologist asked how I was feeling, and I said, "Great!" It was true. I hadn't felt that good since pre-diagnosis. Yay, iron! The doc was pleased with my comment, and informed me that an additional dose of Neupogen would be given the following day, which was Friday. She wanted to boost the white blood cell count with another injection of the marrow-stimulating drug before the next chemo treatment. I thought, "No problemo."
Silly, silly me.
Friday morning, I arrived at a mostly-empty clinic for the shot. I was in and out in 20 minutes. The rest of the day went well. I was able to do some home-schooling with the boys, and the iron seemed to be still sticking around. (Yay, iron! Again.) But during the night, the Neupogen really kicked in. I woke up at 2:00 a.m. feeling like my bones were being crushed. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the medicine cabinet for some Extra Strength Tylenol. It was three hours before I got back to sleep, and I spent most of that time writhing around, struggling to find some way to ease the pain, but there was no escaping it no matter what I tried.
Up till then it was The Worst pain I have ever felt. It was worse than birthing an almost-twelve pound baby, drug-free (kid #3); worse than the labor that I thought would never end (kid #5); worse even than last summer's 30 mm kidney stone, its smaller twin, and all the related surgeries and procedures associated with their removal. It was that bad. It was worse! Because of that experience however, I am now able to attest that prayerful meditation can help to ease pain. I spent a lot of time in those wee hours focusing on Christ's Passion and Death, and as a result, dwelling less on my pain. I acquired a new understanding of suffering that night.
My poor blood was taking such a beating, and the rest of me too. I had no idea, before living through it myself, that treatment for colon cancer involved so much pain. Nausea and fatigue I expected, but the rest of it was a complete--and unwelcome--surprise.
I just hope that someday (a long, long time from now!) I will get to meet the souls who were flying out of purgatory that night.
My oncologist asked how I was feeling, and I said, "Great!" It was true. I hadn't felt that good since pre-diagnosis. Yay, iron! The doc was pleased with my comment, and informed me that an additional dose of Neupogen would be given the following day, which was Friday. She wanted to boost the white blood cell count with another injection of the marrow-stimulating drug before the next chemo treatment. I thought, "No problemo."
Silly, silly me.
Friday morning, I arrived at a mostly-empty clinic for the shot. I was in and out in 20 minutes. The rest of the day went well. I was able to do some home-schooling with the boys, and the iron seemed to be still sticking around. (Yay, iron! Again.) But during the night, the Neupogen really kicked in. I woke up at 2:00 a.m. feeling like my bones were being crushed. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the medicine cabinet for some Extra Strength Tylenol. It was three hours before I got back to sleep, and I spent most of that time writhing around, struggling to find some way to ease the pain, but there was no escaping it no matter what I tried.
Up till then it was The Worst pain I have ever felt. It was worse than birthing an almost-twelve pound baby, drug-free (kid #3); worse than the labor that I thought would never end (kid #5); worse even than last summer's 30 mm kidney stone, its smaller twin, and all the related surgeries and procedures associated with their removal. It was that bad. It was worse! Because of that experience however, I am now able to attest that prayerful meditation can help to ease pain. I spent a lot of time in those wee hours focusing on Christ's Passion and Death, and as a result, dwelling less on my pain. I acquired a new understanding of suffering that night.
My poor blood was taking such a beating, and the rest of me too. I had no idea, before living through it myself, that treatment for colon cancer involved so much pain. Nausea and fatigue I expected, but the rest of it was a complete--and unwelcome--surprise.
I just hope that someday (a long, long time from now!) I will get to meet the souls who were flying out of purgatory that night.
Monday, May 4, 2015
A Pain That Nauseates
Six weeks out from abdominal surgery, I was still in some pain. My oncologist was reluctant to start Avastin until I had been examined by the surgeon. The day after my iron infusion I saw the surgeon in his office. I
expected it to be a quick trip--he'd find all the sore spots, and send
me on my way telling me, "It's just nerve damage, you're good to start
Avastin". Instead, this happened:
Surgeon: Let's see that incision. Hey. Wow. You have some stitches here, still. These must be bothering you.
Me: Uhhh...no, not really
Surgeon: Let's just do this [Grabs tweezers. Yank! He pulled a stitch.]
Me (unspoken): These need to come out WHYYYY?!!
Then, THEN! He held the thing up to the light so I could see it. Did I want to see that? NO! Of course not! I am a person who is unable even to pull my children's baby teeth. In theory, I am interested in All Things Medical, but in practice? No, no, no. And besides: OUCH. But he didn't stop there. He yanked out another one.
Me: YOWIE!
Surgeon: [Holds up...a length of...whatever it is...so I could see.]
Me, weakly: Yeah, I don't need to see that.
Surgeon: Oh. Hey look at that, Celine. You've got a knot right...there! [Scrounge, pull, probe, yank... He turns around to retrieve some other horrific instrument. Dig, pull, yannnnk] AHAAAA...there we go!
Me, getting sicker: OWWWWW...You do know that I'm awake, right? And that I can feel that?!
Him: All done. You did great.
Me: [sweating profusely] I am about to vomit all over your shiny floor. And then pass out...and probably vomit some more. That is not great, Doc...not great at all.
I can't remember how I got out of there. I do remember sitting in my car, still parked, and trying not to throw up. The sense of "something awful just happened" lingered on the fringes of my frazzled mind. I was a mess. I called Patrick at work from my cell phone. Patrick, wonderful husband that he is, comforted me over the phone.
One nap later and the surgeon was forgiven, but I doubt I'll ever forget the way those stitches came out.
Surgeon: Let's see that incision. Hey. Wow. You have some stitches here, still. These must be bothering you.
Me: Uhhh...no, not really
Surgeon: Let's just do this [Grabs tweezers. Yank! He pulled a stitch.]
Me (unspoken): These need to come out WHYYYY?!!
Then, THEN! He held the thing up to the light so I could see it. Did I want to see that? NO! Of course not! I am a person who is unable even to pull my children's baby teeth. In theory, I am interested in All Things Medical, but in practice? No, no, no. And besides: OUCH. But he didn't stop there. He yanked out another one.
Me: YOWIE!
Surgeon: [Holds up...a length of...whatever it is...so I could see.]
Me, weakly: Yeah, I don't need to see that.
Surgeon: Oh. Hey look at that, Celine. You've got a knot right...there! [Scrounge, pull, probe, yank... He turns around to retrieve some other horrific instrument. Dig, pull, yannnnk] AHAAAA...there we go!
Me, getting sicker: OWWWWW...You do know that I'm awake, right? And that I can feel that?!
Him: All done. You did great.
Me: [sweating profusely] I am about to vomit all over your shiny floor. And then pass out...and probably vomit some more. That is not great, Doc...not great at all.
I can't remember how I got out of there. I do remember sitting in my car, still parked, and trying not to throw up. The sense of "something awful just happened" lingered on the fringes of my frazzled mind. I was a mess. I called Patrick at work from my cell phone. Patrick, wonderful husband that he is, comforted me over the phone.
One nap later and the surgeon was forgiven, but I doubt I'll ever forget the way those stitches came out.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Iron Infusion Confusion
Monday, October 21, 2013 was a non-treatment day for me. I did need to go to the clinic for an iron infusion, however. I was not at all enthusiastic about having the port accessed so soon after the previous Monday's ordeal, when three harpoons were stabbed into me. I prepped the area around the port with a numbing agent, then obediently drove to the clinic. Mentally though, I dragged my feet.
Vitals were taken, weight measured, B12 and neupogen injections given, and then it was into an infusion recliner for me. This time, thank goodness, accessing the port went flawlessly! Whew! Harpoon "in", saline flush, and even a blood draw via the port. Done, done, done.
During the prep time the oncologist greeted me and asked about pain at the surgical site. "Still there," I reported. She wanted to assess. This would mean moving to an exam room, postponing the iron infusion for a few minutes. The nurse left the harpoon and associated access tubing in place, using paper tape to attach it to my shoulder temporarily. Upon my return to the treatment room, she would be able to hook me up to the infusion pump in no time. The paraphernalia taped to my sweater reminded me of a bizarre corsage.
Me: I feel pretty.
Nurse: Everyone's going to want one of their own.
We crossed the large treatment room, then made our way down the hall, past the waiting room and finally to an exam room where the doc found all of my sore spots (of course she did!). Then she said she'd like my surgeon to have a try, too. She phoned him, and he agreed that I should be seen in his office. She instructed me to make an appointment with him when I got home.
Back to the treatment room for iron--glorious, energy-enhancing iron. The oncologist followed me as I returned to the recliner, and spoke of vitamins, folic acid, and heartburn meds as I got settled into the chair. She stood in front of me writing prescriptions, which someone would phone in to the pharmacy (convenient!), then left the room. It was as she walked away that I realized that I had brought no reading material with me. No Kindle, no books, no laptop, and no companion either!
I needed something to do. I was too shy to suggest turning on the T.V. to the other reclining patients. I stood up, hoping to find some decent reading material on the shelf across the room since I knew that the infusion, once it started, would take an hour.
"Once it started" is the phrase to note. I thought that the infusion hadn't started yet. I was wrong!
Two seconds after I stood up and began walking across the treatment room a nurse came flying out of the cocktail bar, with arms outstretched and frantically waving her hands in front of her.
Nurse: Whoa! Whoa! Whooooooaaaa!!!
Me (unspoken): Who's she talking to?
Just then I was jerked back. Oh nooooo! The tube leading from my port was pulled tight and I felt a nauseating tug from the hardware in my chest. I stopped dead in my tracks as the nurse leapt behind the row of chairs like a super-hero. In a blink she unplugged the infusion pump from the wall, freeing me for my walk across the room.
Me, panicked: Uh-oh!
Nurse, cheerily: Don't forget your skinny boyfriend.
Me: OHHH my goodness. I didn't know I was connected.
I was connected like so:
me with embedded port
harpoon stuck into port
catheter connected to harpoon
bag of iron connected to catheter
I.V. pole connected to bag of iron
I.V. pump connected to the I.V. pole
electrical outlet (the WALL) connected to the I.V. pump (cord).
I had tried darting away, oblivious that I was tethered to the wall! Unbeknownst to me, someone had connected the harpoon in my chest to the waiting bag of I.V. fluid while I was talking to the doctor. How could I have not notice that?!
Nurse: No harm done. We had you taped up good.
Me: Sorry for the heart attack.
Me: If I close my eyes, I will be invisible! It works for my six-year-old...he says.
Also Me: I wonder if I would have responded better if she had yelled, "Stop!"
Mortified, I continued to my destination, this time consciously aware that I needed to bring the rolling pump/pole contraption along with me as though nothing had happened, certain that other patients' eyes were following my path. I grabbed a book. I returned to my spot and tried to disappear. I hid behind "Against All Enemies" by Tom Clancy while piecing back together the shreds of my dignity.
When I got home, I konked out on my bed and woke up to find that the Iron Fairy had delivered my brain. Not only that, but I could now stand up without a mini-blackout.
Iron, I love you. Don't ever leave me again!
Vitals were taken, weight measured, B12 and neupogen injections given, and then it was into an infusion recliner for me. This time, thank goodness, accessing the port went flawlessly! Whew! Harpoon "in", saline flush, and even a blood draw via the port. Done, done, done.
During the prep time the oncologist greeted me and asked about pain at the surgical site. "Still there," I reported. She wanted to assess. This would mean moving to an exam room, postponing the iron infusion for a few minutes. The nurse left the harpoon and associated access tubing in place, using paper tape to attach it to my shoulder temporarily. Upon my return to the treatment room, she would be able to hook me up to the infusion pump in no time. The paraphernalia taped to my sweater reminded me of a bizarre corsage.
Me: I feel pretty.
Nurse: Everyone's going to want one of their own.
We crossed the large treatment room, then made our way down the hall, past the waiting room and finally to an exam room where the doc found all of my sore spots (of course she did!). Then she said she'd like my surgeon to have a try, too. She phoned him, and he agreed that I should be seen in his office. She instructed me to make an appointment with him when I got home.
Back to the treatment room for iron--glorious, energy-enhancing iron. The oncologist followed me as I returned to the recliner, and spoke of vitamins, folic acid, and heartburn meds as I got settled into the chair. She stood in front of me writing prescriptions, which someone would phone in to the pharmacy (convenient!), then left the room. It was as she walked away that I realized that I had brought no reading material with me. No Kindle, no books, no laptop, and no companion either!
I needed something to do. I was too shy to suggest turning on the T.V. to the other reclining patients. I stood up, hoping to find some decent reading material on the shelf across the room since I knew that the infusion, once it started, would take an hour.
"Once it started" is the phrase to note. I thought that the infusion hadn't started yet. I was wrong!
Two seconds after I stood up and began walking across the treatment room a nurse came flying out of the cocktail bar, with arms outstretched and frantically waving her hands in front of her.
Nurse: Whoa! Whoa! Whooooooaaaa!!!
Me (unspoken): Who's she talking to?
Just then I was jerked back. Oh nooooo! The tube leading from my port was pulled tight and I felt a nauseating tug from the hardware in my chest. I stopped dead in my tracks as the nurse leapt behind the row of chairs like a super-hero. In a blink she unplugged the infusion pump from the wall, freeing me for my walk across the room.
Me, panicked: Uh-oh!
Nurse, cheerily: Don't forget your skinny boyfriend.
Me: OHHH my goodness. I didn't know I was connected.
I was connected like so:
me with embedded port
harpoon stuck into port
catheter connected to harpoon
bag of iron connected to catheter
I.V. pole connected to bag of iron
I.V. pump connected to the I.V. pole
electrical outlet (the WALL) connected to the I.V. pump (cord).
I had tried darting away, oblivious that I was tethered to the wall! Unbeknownst to me, someone had connected the harpoon in my chest to the waiting bag of I.V. fluid while I was talking to the doctor. How could I have not notice that?!
Nurse: No harm done. We had you taped up good.
Me: Sorry for the heart attack.
Me: If I close my eyes, I will be invisible! It works for my six-year-old...he says.
Also Me: I wonder if I would have responded better if she had yelled, "Stop!"
Mortified, I continued to my destination, this time consciously aware that I needed to bring the rolling pump/pole contraption along with me as though nothing had happened, certain that other patients' eyes were following my path. I grabbed a book. I returned to my spot and tried to disappear. I hid behind "Against All Enemies" by Tom Clancy while piecing back together the shreds of my dignity.
When I got home, I konked out on my bed and woke up to find that the Iron Fairy had delivered my brain. Not only that, but I could now stand up without a mini-blackout.
Iron, I love you. Don't ever leave me again!
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