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dcnovice -> RE: Got Prayers? (Or Good Wishes?) (6/13/2013 9:16:06 PM)
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I've been carefully saving my updates (73 pages so far!) in the hope they'll prove the makings of a book. I like the blog idea but don't have the tech skills to launch it myself.
Meantime, I'm happy to report that my maiden voyage was largely smooth sailing.
Tonight's update:
Thirteen, you may recall, was Woodrow Wilson’s lucky number, and it pretty much came through for me today. Things went as well as I could have hoped. A dear friend from St. M’s picked me up at 11:30 and ferried me over to Georgetown. God bless him, he then stayed with me the whole time, till half past four.
The Infusion Center was quite lovely, with a huge multipart painting I coveted. (For those of you who’ve been to radiation, it’s way better than the sunflowers!) Fortunately, smuggling it out was not even remotely an option, so I didn’t have to wrestle with temptation. Also, it’s four times the size of my longest wall.
As usual, the Georgetown staff were kindness itself. They made me comfortable and deftly tethered me to a medley of IVs. When the nurse went to insert the needle into the Mediport (through a layer of skin), she warned “Big stick.” I clenched my fists but felt only a mild jab—a huge improvement over the search for a vein. I may never give the Mediport back!
Over the course of the session, I kept thinking of a stage direction from Margaret Edson's brilliant play Wit, which I’ve reread several times lately with ever-deepening appreciation. The note says, “Every time the IV pole reappears, it has a different configuration of bottles.” Too true! I started with an anti-nausea agent coupled (tripled?) with steroids and sugar water. Then came the main course: a pair of polysyllabic chemicals whose names I’m too tired to look up. All this took about three hours.
The time passed reasonably quickly, and I was largely effect-free, thank heaven. I had a few whispers of queasiness, but I think that was my brain/body doing what it thought it was “supposed” to do. The same thing happened when I began oral chemo. I’ve learned not to read drug inserts (those flimsy sheets of dense, six-point type that lovingly detail every possible side effect reported in any clinical trial, even once), because I’m sadly skilled at producing symptoms. If you told me chemo would produce an ectopic pregnancy, I’d have one. I did feel oddly warm for a while, which puzzled my nurse.
Once IV chemo was done, the nurse flushed out the tubing into my Mediport, and my oncology homework began: 46 hours of toting a portable pump that “infuses” (a verb that makes me think I’m absorbing herbal tea) the aptly named chemical FU into my system. The realities of the pump were a bit of a jolt. Based on no evidence at all, I’d pictured a slim gizmo, about the size of my hand, that would be attached to my chest and discreetly do its noble work. Wrong. The device looks like a 1970s-era calculator and dwells in a black nylon pouch about the size and shape of a fanny pack.
That means wearing the pouch atop my clothing, which is an odd feeling. I’ve been toting it on my right side with the strap crossing my neck to rest on the left shoulder. I tried the right, but the damn thing kept slipping. This oh-so-stylish accessory makes my treatment fairly public, at least to anyone who spots the tubing. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not ashamed of the cancer (I’ve even learned to say “rectal” instead of hiding behind “colorectal”), but I’d prefer to have some say about whom I tell. Of course, most folks will probably think I’m just an uberdork who doesn’t know how to wear a fanny pack. That briefly distressed me, but then I remembered it’s hardly the only thing keeping me off the cover of GQ.
I got home safe and sound and (thanks to lucky timing) dry. Vegged at home a bit, then went to the diner for supper. My appetite was its usual hearty self, and I had a great time chatting with two other regulars. Then I came home to tend the cat and unwind. I was all set to call my parents and report glowingly on my maiden chemo session, when I glanced downward and saw a red spot just over my Mediport. “Goddammit!” I thought. “Did I spill spaghetti sauce and not notice?” Except that I hadn’t had spaghetti. I looked more carefully: It was blood.
That was mildly disturbing. I shucked the shirt (with only one bit of tube tangling, a pleasant surprise). The dressing over my Mediport was peeling away from my skin—an unwelcome sight. The tubing still appeared to be intact, and the pump assured me it was pumping. I called Georgetown, and the oncology fellow on call said that, absent flowing blood, I didn’t need to hit the ER. Deo gratias! I’ll tap my newly purchased Band-Aids (which I was too lazy to return when I turned out not to need them after the Mediport installation) and secure things for the night. If all else fails, there’s duct tape.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll contact Georgetown about getting the insertion site checked and the dressing fixed. Haven’t decided if I’ll call or just show up. This speed bump irks me a bit, but then I ponder all the other things that could have happened today and gratitude settles on me like a soft, cozy quilt.
Depending on how I feel and the speediness of my dressing repair, I hope to head to the Zoo tomorrow. So far, I’ve largely felt great (well, “given the givens,” as Bill Wendt used to say). But I know from survivor friends that the rough stuff may come a day or two after the infusion.
And now off to bed, once I figure out where to place the pump so I neither crush nor disconnect it in the night. Sweet dreams to us all!
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