Last evening I had a call that my 'ride' to and from the hospital wouldn't happen due to unforeseen circumstances. Many have said that they would help if needed and I did a quick inventory (in my head) and decided to call my sister Donna. Unfortunately she had a commitment that couldn't be changed, but offered up (her husband, John) my brother-in-law. Reporting back later it appeared that he too had a commitment. We did have a back up plan in the event I couldn't find any one - I would drive myself and we'd figure out a way to get my car back after I was picked up. That was a strong plan, but luckily a call to a nearby friend yielded the plan placed into action. His father [Ed], 'snow-birds it' during the winter months and summers up here. 'He doesn't have anything planned, so he'll take you and pick you up." Excellent!
Ed arrived a few minutes early and I arrived at the Dana Farber Cancer unit - Methuen, ahead of my appointment. It seemed to be a good time as there were very few patients waiting and no one ahead of me at the reception. Other than the 'slow computers', the check in was uneventful and I soon sporting my wristband. "Have a seat and you'll be called", she said.
I sat and checked some email and texts and was called into the examination room for a check of my vitals. Yup, I was alive. "Dr Mehta will be right with you", I was told.
Dr Mehta arrived and noticed my bald head and said he 'liked the look' [while grinning]. While reviewing my notes he said that my labs came back normal [had a blood test yesterday]. He said that my bone marrow did well for the first round of chemo and I did not need a booster. However, he did caution me that I may not be as fortunate this round and may experience more fatigue. He added that he wanted to see me on July 14th. [I made a reference to Bastille Day and I didn't get the impression that he got the connection. To that I say: Let him eat cake.]
He continued and asked for an update on my charlie horse, thrush and numbness. "Bananas seem to be the cure for the charlie horse", I said. I explained that the numbness in my feet seems to have dissipated, but my thumb and forefinger still are 'weird'. The thrush did turn into a sore throat which I treated with asprin. It finally cleared up.
Dr. Mehta then said let me check you out. He looked into my mouth and after a few 'aaahs' he said the thrush is gone. [Yay]. He listened to my chest and heart and said all was good. I did add that my vein was still tender to the touch and asked if it made sense to use another vein so it could heal. He said there were four veins to choose from and it shouldn't be a problem. [Yay] So I ventured off to the Chemo room.
It was standing room only in the chemo room. Much like visiting a restaurant during the lunch or dinner rush there was a line waiting for vacated seats. Timing is everything because two were leaving and I was able to snag my previous chair (number 7). Not that I gamble or am superstitious - well maybe a little superstitious. I was thinking lucky sevens.
Elizabeth wasn't on duty and I overheard the nurses telling other patients that she had the weekend off to go to her beach house. Good for her, but I was thinking bad for me. So much for lucky sevens.
My executioner...errr, nurse for the day stopped by and asked my name and date of birth. She went to her computer and entered some information, left the room and then returned with a heaping helping of fluids. She said that she needed to 'set me up' [poke me with the IV feed] and asked if I had a preference (arm). I told her that some lymph nodes were removed from my left arm. She said, "Then the decision is already made." I added that the vein previously used needed more time to heal and Dr. Mehta said that we should use another. She said that she was going to use (while pointing) "this one". Perfect.
She got her 'works' out and proceeded set up the IV. I never liked to watch this part, so I averted my eyes and hoped for just a pinch. Many times in the past I was always given the warning, "You'll feel a pinch". No warning, but a declaration that she has bifocals and always looks over them. Not one to have corrective lenses, I didn't get what that meant. However, I soon had visions of Mr Magoo as I felt the need go into my arm's 'meat'. I looked and saw her pulling it out and pushing it in, then finally pulled out as she took gauze and pressed the freshly spilled blood. I asked, "What happened here?" She said, "I blew it. I went through the vein and backed out and messed it up." I said, 'So do we need to pick a different vein?" I was told that she was able to go past the first attempt site and use the same vein. "Ok, you are in charge." Jokingly she said, "Yes, never argue with the person with the needle in the their hands." She had better success this time. Maybe she opened her eyes while looking over the bifocals.
I two bags of fluids dripped into me then she said it's time for the chemo. That red Kool-ade measures high on my fright meter. And once again there were two huge syringes of it that had to be 'pushed' into me. We chit chatted a bit about Prince Edward Island (where her family is from) and other vacation destinations in the US. All interesting and really helped pass the time. I only looked down three times. Finally she said, "It's time for the Cyclophosphamide." Although it was clear in color, it scares just as much as the Adriamycin (Kool-ade). About an hour after the start of that last bag, I was told I could leave. [Yay]
I called for my ride home and wished various healthcare workers a safe and happy 4th.
Home now (obviously) and trying to drink plenty of fluids so I can flush that poison out. Just feeling kind of 'fuzzy brained and generally blahhh'
More to come.
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