Half way through!!! (Dose 4)
I just got home from my fourth dose; my chemo ride is officially half over! Next visit I switch to a different, "less harsh" drug to finish out the series.
According to my doctor, getting exhausted at this phase in treatment is to be expected and will likely peak four weeks from today (four weeks after the last dose of my current drug). It sounds like I'm going to have to plan for a very low key, stress free Christmas. This is going to be challenging. Of course, she also said I was a "rock star." Which I see as proof that she's infallible...others may suggest I take her input with a grain of salt.
Have I mentioned you can taste the medications as they inject them? It's bizarre. I have a port near my collarbone that they use to infuse the mediation. The port is connected to a tube that runs directly into one of my heart veins. That way the mediation has longer to work before my body starts trying to attack it or filter it out of my system. Each visit they access the port with a frighteningly long needle and hook me up to a standard medical drip. First they flush the port with saline and then they pump in a massive dose of anti-nausea meds before pushing the chemo drug and cleaning the port again. Every step has a different taste and smell...only it's waaaay in the back of my mouth and partially in my sinuses so it's really just a 'hint' of taste and smell. The saline is familiar and pretty innocuous. The anti-nausea meds have a harsh chemical base with an almost floral over tone. There's something 'familiar' about it but I haven't been able to put my finger on what. Interestingly, the chemo meds are the most colorful (vivid red) but really don't smell or taste like much. Given that they are basically poison, you'd think they'd taste and smell of something. Or maybe by the time those get pumped in, what few tastebuds can pick up on the sensation of medicine being injected directly into my heart are exhausted and I'm spared the gustatory and olfactory assault. Little victories.
Before calling this entry a wrap, in this time of giving thanks I have a request -- if you are ever asked to participate in a Food Train, pick a night and just do it. Even if your culinary skills are limited to assembling store cooked chicken and a bagged salad - providing a meal is an amazing gift. In the case of chemo patients, it's a gift of more 'good time'. Time spared planning, shopping and prepping a meal. It's also a gift of normalcy. Sure, my experience has been lucky - limited side effects, a fairly normal life. When friends show up with dinner it is a massive load off the entire family. We get to use 'good time' sitting together and enjoying a wonderful dinner. And finally, a meal is a wonderful reminder that we're not in this alone. Sure, I hide my bald head under a wig and there are people I interact with every day who don't have a clue that I'm sick. It's reassuring to be reminded of the slew of people willing to help out should the wheels fall off the bus. Thank you to the angels who have been helping keep my family fed. We are saner, happier, thankful and humbled by your generosity.
With that, have a very happy Thanksgiving. Raise a glass for me (I'll be off wine for at least a week). Give thanks for good heath (or good health care), good friends and supportive family. Cheers!
According to my doctor, getting exhausted at this phase in treatment is to be expected and will likely peak four weeks from today (four weeks after the last dose of my current drug). It sounds like I'm going to have to plan for a very low key, stress free Christmas. This is going to be challenging. Of course, she also said I was a "rock star." Which I see as proof that she's infallible...others may suggest I take her input with a grain of salt.
Have I mentioned you can taste the medications as they inject them? It's bizarre. I have a port near my collarbone that they use to infuse the mediation. The port is connected to a tube that runs directly into one of my heart veins. That way the mediation has longer to work before my body starts trying to attack it or filter it out of my system. Each visit they access the port with a frighteningly long needle and hook me up to a standard medical drip. First they flush the port with saline and then they pump in a massive dose of anti-nausea meds before pushing the chemo drug and cleaning the port again. Every step has a different taste and smell...only it's waaaay in the back of my mouth and partially in my sinuses so it's really just a 'hint' of taste and smell. The saline is familiar and pretty innocuous. The anti-nausea meds have a harsh chemical base with an almost floral over tone. There's something 'familiar' about it but I haven't been able to put my finger on what. Interestingly, the chemo meds are the most colorful (vivid red) but really don't smell or taste like much. Given that they are basically poison, you'd think they'd taste and smell of something. Or maybe by the time those get pumped in, what few tastebuds can pick up on the sensation of medicine being injected directly into my heart are exhausted and I'm spared the gustatory and olfactory assault. Little victories.
Before calling this entry a wrap, in this time of giving thanks I have a request -- if you are ever asked to participate in a Food Train, pick a night and just do it. Even if your culinary skills are limited to assembling store cooked chicken and a bagged salad - providing a meal is an amazing gift. In the case of chemo patients, it's a gift of more 'good time'. Time spared planning, shopping and prepping a meal. It's also a gift of normalcy. Sure, my experience has been lucky - limited side effects, a fairly normal life. When friends show up with dinner it is a massive load off the entire family. We get to use 'good time' sitting together and enjoying a wonderful dinner. And finally, a meal is a wonderful reminder that we're not in this alone. Sure, I hide my bald head under a wig and there are people I interact with every day who don't have a clue that I'm sick. It's reassuring to be reminded of the slew of people willing to help out should the wheels fall off the bus. Thank you to the angels who have been helping keep my family fed. We are saner, happier, thankful and humbled by your generosity.
With that, have a very happy Thanksgiving. Raise a glass for me (I'll be off wine for at least a week). Give thanks for good heath (or good health care), good friends and supportive family. Cheers!
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