Bumpy Day

So - there is great news and concerning news. The great news is that for the first time my oncologist says I am in remission! REMISSION!!! They are careful about using that word. They won't say it until enough time has passed symptom free. My heart leaps. Already I feel that resurrection power lifting me up.

But, she tells me, the most recent scan - done for the kidney stone stuff - shows a large cyst in my left ovary. She urges me to have that checked out as soon as possible. Hum. Back down goes my elated heart. Another health thing to have to wrestle with. OK. Deep breath, hang on to the promises. And proceed down the hall to chemo. She has sent the orders in.


It begins like any other chemo session. The pre-med pills, the port access and IV fluids, the double nurse check for the Rituxan. My church mice have kindly sent a big bag of gifts to keep me cheerful. This time, the ladies of the church have filled out little cards with Bible verses on one side and encouraging notes on the other. I know the drugs will make my head foggy soon so rather than read one every 20 minutes, I take them 4 at a time. I feel very supported and have lots to hang on to.


Good thing, because the usual reaction hits despite the addition of a new preventive drug. My head aches and my throat is burning and itching. My lips are numb and my feet are starting to tingle. I can see red blotches on my neck. I now get the IV preventive drugs. They hit with a wham. Soon I can not stay awake. I am vaguely aware of nurses coming and going, checking my temperature, my blood pressure. My oxygen levels fall and they add in a tube in my nose for oxygen.


Then the unexpected. I have a second reaction. The throat, the tongue swelling, itching. They stop the Rituxan again and call the oncologist. She suggests more IV meds, but they have to check with the pharmacist. I am maxed out. There is nothing else they can give me. The doctor suggests slowing the Rituxan to 50 and trying to get the final 100 ml out of 800 total in. The pharmacist nixes that idea. Too risky. Run fluids - lots of them. Then send her home. No more chemo today.


They have a power meeting. It is decided that for my next chemo, I will not mess around with the pills. I will get the hefty IV drugs right away, and they will not take my speed up past 200 ever again. The nurse tells me I am too drugged to drive. Good thing Drew is coming to get me. I am sluggish as I wander out to the lobby to wait for Drew to arrive. My head aches. It feels like I have a meat cleaver splitting my head in two. My joints all hurt. My body is screaming for rest and warmth. I am a spineless rag doll wanting to melt all over the floor.


Drew pulls up and opens the car door. I fall into the seat grateful that my friends have sent food so Drew will have something to eat because I am clearly certain I cannot manage anything for awhile. This one was bad.


And yet, the whole time, I continued to hold on to the image of Jesus offering me sustenance. I could almost feel him reaching out his hand and touching my heart, filling it with warmth and strength. He stayed with me the whole time, even after I got home and curled up in the blue recliner, cuddling a hot water bottle and forcing myself to drink a lot of water to flush out the toxins.


At least it is over. Note to self. Don't take chemo until you are sure your system is not still stressed by medication for other stuff. Only a half dozen more episodes to go until the maintenance chemo is over. Just remember it keeps the cancer from returning. It buys you time.