Excitement was not exactly the word that described what I was feeling this morning when I woke up. It was a quiet greeting to inevitability yet a happy one.
Breakfast was my first order of business. I tried not to make a lot of noise as I scarfed down on cut up banana with my cereal. My aunt was sleeping on my sofa even though I offered her a nice air mattress to sleep on. I had to eat to make sure I survived the day especially since I was the dumb bunny that signed up for a research study that involved a stress test just a couple of hours
before her first chemotherapy infusion. After feeding myself, I got dressed so I could give my aunt time to get ready and eat some cereal, too.
I drove us to the hospital and checked right in the fourth floor and had blood drawn. It wasn't a quick job because my port wasn't relinquishing my blood so after a while I had to be reclined with my head lower than my feet to get the draw. I was teasing the nurse saying that the "research hookers" were probably already searching for me. My prediction was correct as I read the name on the badge of the blonde waiting for me at the second floor reception check-in. The lady behind reception recognized me from yesterday's surgery check-in and said hello.
My aunt and I were whisked into a room with all kinds of instruments. When I was firmly hooked up to various electrodes and a breathing mask, a cardiologist was called to be in place during the stress test just in case anything went awry. It went better than I thought. I started off to a slow walk then to a faster pace. My concentration was more on making sure I had the correct foot strike instead of what was happening. I only broke a sweat on my scalp, but I still felt the fatigue from yesterday.
This was me with the breathing mask plastered to my face widening it like the moon. Of course, it wasn't helping that I was laughing too hard as the "research hooker" took a movie of me.
We checked in a second time on the fourth floor for vitals which later had me alarmed. The male nurse decided to verify my height and now apparently
I have shrunk. I am no longer 5'8" but 5'6.5"!!! WTF? Did I somehow get sent to space without my knowledge? Astronauts lose height every time they go to space. In reality, perhaps the tumor had been leeching all the nutrients for many years thus causing me to lose height. A heavy regimen of yoga and pilates will be in my future as soon as I can manage it for sure.
I went back out in the waiting room to tell my aunt my news while we waited for the restaurant-like buzzer assigned to me to go off signaling my infusion seat was ready. To my surprise, Kimmee's daughter Serina (she just got a research job at the hospital) came to see me. In fact she ended up seeing me two more times while I was in the infusion seat. Sweet thing. I made sure to call her mother when I got home to tell her what a good cookie she was for attending to me.
The infusion center was a catacomb of halls and rooms filled with nothing but bluish green vinyl chairs with "wings" sporting drink holders on either side. I felt like I was in my old hospital room again with the IV stand which I had to unplug its industrial size plug (normal if you live in England - hee!) to take it with me to the bathroom. There was a flat panel TV I could maneuver comfortably and attach a pair of headphones they gave me. Lunches, snacks and drinks were free to the patients. I shared everything with my aunt.
So what was it really like? I didn't have an opinion on it. It was neither good or bad, just something I had to do, you know? There was a bag for saline, Benadryl to combat any allergic reaction, Taxol (Part 1 of my chemo cocktail) and Carboplatin (Part 2 of chemo cocktail). The Benadryl had me sleeping most of the five hours it took to administer everything one by one. I was given anti-nausea pills before my last IV bag.
I couldn't stay awake to save my life. The "research hookers" tried to give me follow up instructions and give my tools and diary for my end of the research as the drug kicked in. My bladder woke me up periodically and I was able to eat a quick lunch early on. I saw Serina for one minute while she came to see me the second time. My poor aunt was left to her own devices. She watched TV and also took a walk outside. I also received several text messages from the Sprinkles Posse checking up on my progress and to send their love. My nurse called, too, to confirm our appointment. I had to put her off until Monday -- my infusion was taking longer than we previously discussed.
Aunt Maria drove us home where I suddenly became alive again. I made coffee in my French press and preheated the oven. My uncle was on his way to drop off medication for my aunt and I was set on us having frozen pizza for dinner and maybe ice cream for dessert if they were up to it. I was a busy bee for some reason or perhaps I was afraid to sit and let exhaustion take over?
Dinner was good conversation and laughter. My uncle left earlier than I anticipated. We gals made it a movie night, but I fell asleep part of the movie. Luckily I was awake enough to call Angie in California to give her an update. I eventually made it to bed around 12am. Before sleep I splayed pieces of instructions for follow-up medications in the morning, emergency instructions for side-effects and another sheet of instruction for something else on my dining room table...
I ruminated all day on how the people getting chemotherapy didn't look like me. They were all much older and if they were women, they
looked like they were getting it done. Call it vanity, but I still show up dressed and made up. My aunt was dressed and made up, too! This is your life and you can prepare for whatever comes. I hope I don't sound mean to the other people; I just feel you should make the very best of it instead of surrendering to a type of resignation. Greeting inevitability with smile or an extra sparkle should go a long way to recovery, shouldn't it? In any case, today was a long day. It unfolded much better than I imagined.
Love,
Sarah
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Inevitable Infusion
