A Spork in the Road

Greetings from the infusion room! I am sitting in my usual spot (at one end of the L-shaped room, watching the good nurses in the injection/blood work room do their thing). My laptop shares an outlet with my infusion monitor, and I’m using the wireless connection they’ve set up so we chemo patients can amuse ourselves while being pumped full of toxic chemicals. w00t!

I have been rebuked by the Wild Dancing Woman of Hoboken for being remiss in posting, so my first order of business today was to write a properly penitent post. I’m not even connected to my port yet! Read on, dear, devoted, neglected readers. Read on.

This last round of chemo wasn’t all that bad in terms of side effects except for the first few days (as you may recall, gastrointestinal upset leading to lost sleep). I was a little more fatigued than usual the first weekend, but that could have been from my overdoing it a little.

(I just got hooked up — my vials of blood are on their way back to the lab for my CBCs. I still have a moment of feeling a little woozy when the port goes in, but I get to lie back and take deep breaths and then I feel better.)

And then last week I got a head cold. Cancer and a cold. Really? The cancer wasn’t enough?

Fortunately, my immune system seems to be holding up well (thanks, Neulasta!) and I’ve been able to fight this one off pretty quickly. I had a low-grade fever on Sunday night, which completely freaked me out (fevers are a BIG DEAL when you’re on chemo), but the chemo nurses were not unduly concerned when I called Monday morning, and today I feel almost back to normal. So. The head cold is almost vanquished, and at least I’m not sniveling and snotting all over the place on chemo day.

(Blood counts came back solid across the board, so I’m on my premeds! Hurrah!)

Ooh. Yeah. They’ve started the steroids, and they hit me fast. I start to feel hopped up right away. My brain starts twitching. Looks like it’s dexamethasone dripping right now.

Anyway, I’m also pleased to report that we did a read-through of “Rabbit Hole,” which is an amazing play by David Lindsay-Abaire. If we do produce this play through the newly formed Showcase Repertory Company, I’ll be playing the role of Becca.

(Blech. The steroids are making me feel a little… not queasy, but Not Right. I’ve blown through my 10 mg of dexamethasone plus 25 mg diphenydramine and 0.25 mg palonosetron, which sounds like it should be a Transformer. Now I’m dripping Emend, which does a beautiful job of preventing nausea, and then it’s on to the real stuff. Maybe the Emend will settle my stomach.)

I’m excited about the possibility of doing “Rabbit Hole.” The role of Becca was played by Cynthia Nixon in the Broadway production, and it requires a great deal of emotion to be expressed through a restrained personality. This is a challenge, and one I welcome.

(The Emend is kicking in, so now I’m hungry. Go figure.)

Hey, cool! There is cancer swag for us to enjoy! I am now wearing a yellow LiveStrong bracelet and have a chemo notebook with a pen that — get this! — distributes red Post-It’s when you turn the base! Coolest thing EVER.

I know. I’m a geek. I know.

So. I’m on a saline drip awaiting the good stuff. There’s a little plastic bin with my Adriamycin and Vinblastine; the Bleomycin is hanging from my monitor’s pole.

And now: it’s time for The Push. Adriamycin, “the Red Devil,” which is the reason I’m chewing spearmint gum this very moment to mask the tang I get in my mouth when the drug is pushed. Then Vinblastine….

Okay, done with my pushes. Now I’m on my Bleomycin drip. (Bleo is the one that can wreak havoc on the lungs; no high-flow oxygen until I’m done with treatment, or it’ll fry my lungs.) It’s getting busy in here. I usually come in early, between 8:30 and 9:30, but by 11:00 the room is filling up. Now it’s bustling. I sit on the leg of the L that doesn’t turn on the television, so the sounds are all of people talking, needles being tapped for air, monitors beeping, the spruak of tubing being yanked out of drip bags.

Another round almost down, wrapping up Cycle #2. I’ll be a third of the way through my chemo after today.

I’m about to start on my Dacarbazine, which drips for an hour and then I leave. So I’ll sign off now, having taken you, Gentle Reader, most of the way with me through this infusion.