Chemo

Here we go again. I am in no particular hurry to arrive at the cancer clinic. I bring my comfortable big pink bag that Pastor Sherri gave me at the beginning of this leg of my journey with cancer. I am wise enough now to know not to bring a lot of reading, and though I still believe that keeping my mind working in mathematical patterns is important, I also know I will likely rest a lot. So the bag is not as crammed as it has been in the past. I make sure I have a warm hat and a sweater that buttons. And plenty of space for port access from my tee shirt neck.

I am ready for feeling a bit crummy and tired for a few days, a small price to pay for continued absence of any symptoms of cancer. Today I decide I will just be quiet and peaceful. I will breathe deeply and concentrate on all the many many things I am grateful for. A hot shower to relax my muscles. A warm soothing cup of ginger green tea. A friendly lick from Sugar before I leave. A dependable car to drive. A son to drive me to treatment. I am so blessed. Not to even mention the insurance coverage that will take care of this little $10,000 treatment.

The nurse is one I know and like. She hands me the little white plastic medicine cup with my management pills and I obediently down them one at a time, taking big swigs of the cold water. She accesses my port quickly and efficiently, hooking me up to fluids as the yukky feeling from the meds begins to hit. It's rather like drawing a dull gray curtain over your world. Everything becomes a bit foggy and blurred. You feel a tad headachy and sluggish, and you have to fight through it to think.

I read a bit, then my Rituxan arrives. A second nurse verifies that this is me and this is my meds before my nurse can hang the bag and start the drip. My oncologist upped the dosage of the Decadron to help lessen the impact later, and we have agreed not to go full bore with the dosage administration. The nurse suggests that it is not the speed at which I get the Rituxan, but just that my body has been adjusting and each reaction may indeed be different. We still go slow. They are wonderful at humoring my half baked ideas. Especially when it doesn't really matter to them one way or the other.

I tell myself that its just a few days. I will bounce back quickly now that I am recovering from the main impact. Just be patient. Let the toxins roll in, kill the enemy, and roll out dragging those cancer cells with them. Let it pass quickly.

Soon Kiel appears and its time to go home. Last time I had a window of feeling OK before the real slump hit. Maybe because I took the meds so quickly. Today I do not have that window. I am struggling before I even get to the car. The tiredness, the blah's, the drained feelings are already in full swing. Go home. Sleep it off. You have a whole weekend to throw this. I settle back into the car seat and close my eyes. We will be home soon. I am blessed to have a home where I can be comfortable and where I have help. Yup. It's all good. It's all good.