Chemo Day

Here we go again. I am ready, my pink bag packed. I bring a book to read (assigned reading for the Doctor of Ministry program I have started - yikes! not the hefty stuff you have to plough through like running through a tank of molasses with at least 3 passes, just the meaty interesting stuff I can understand after one reading), a bag of presents from the church mice (promises of both entertainment and goodies to eat), my comfy blankie, fresh water (the more the better), and my trusty adult level dot-to-dot book.

The last two times have not been so bad, so I expect this to go as well. Maybe I can take it at full bore. I cheerfully turn my chair to face the window which offers blue skies and green trees. Yes. I set up my water and book, wrap in my blanket and open the first present. My nurse is someone who usually does my port flushes, so we know each other. But with the new online system, not all my previous experiences with Rituxan are in the database. She offers me pre-chemo meds that are not beefy enough. I question her. Don't I get Decadron?

She kindly believes me and goes to check the paper files. Yes. I have gotten that the past two times. Dr. Young is out of town, but she finds the head nurse and they manage to get permission to do what has been done in the past. Good. I mention the need for IV fluids and she graciously hangs a bottle at my request. I am thankful she is not offended by my statements. After all, she does this for a living and I am just one patient. On the other hand, I have come to know my body fairly well, and I am glad she permits me to speak up.

Unfortunately, the day does not go well. The meds give me a terrible headache, and after only an hour, I begin to react. My feet are numb, my joints hurt, my tongue is itchy. My blood pressure is elevated, then drops, elevated then drops. She stops the Rituxan and lets the IV clear things up. I open another present - a mouse who says "Wow" when you squeeze his tummy. I squeeze him at every bad turn. He is eloquent in expressing my disappointment.

We try again at a slower pace, but in just a few minutes I am struggling. Rats. Squeeze mouse. We stop and I rest. She suggests more Benadryl, and I accept until I realize she is planning on the IV stuff. I tell her about my proclivity to faint from that, and she pulls in another nurse to see how to handle it. The pills will take too long to take effect.

I learn a new technique. Instead of pushing the Benadryl directly into me, they hang it on the IV bag and push it into the saline drip. It takes a full ten minutes to dispense mixed that way, but I have no fainting spells. I am delighted to find a way to take that stuff without the immediate impact I usually get. We begin again at the slowest pace and leave it there. This will be a long day and the farther I get into it, the worse I feel. Squeeze mouse. I haven't had this strong a reaction since the beginning. Must be working hard to keep that cancer at bay.

Finally the last of the Rituxan drips out and I am on the flushing out side of the chemo. I am only too glad to disconnect and wobble out into the lobby. I have been doing chemo on my own a few times, but I think I will bring someone with me next time. This one was a doozie. I really just want to go home and lie down for a long time.