Chemo

I arrive at 7 am, have labs done, meet my new oncologist (my beloved Dr. Young has moved to Philadelphia). He is the head of the lymphoma department and the originator of the trial I am part of. Bless my stars, he informs me that they have been tracking the amount of radiation we are exposed to due to the trial, and have decided we are getting too much, so I will not longer have so many scans. Only 1 per year!!!! Hallelujah! I have expressed concern about the radiation exposure for years now. I am happy that someone listened and did something about it. Now on to the infusion center.

Oh, rabbits. The wonderful nurse I had last time is on vacation and I get another nurse who has not worked through my scenario. I patiently explain to her that I get the big guns up front, but she is not buying it. She prefers to give the least amount of drugs and add more in if needed. Better for the person. Right. I explain that I always have a reaction, but she just smiles and gives me pills. For a moment I want to scream at her and throw the pills at her head. But I remember that I am under God's grace and perhaps he has another idea. I sigh, surrender, and take the darn pills. At least I won't sleep through the day.

But I do see that there is a need for me to be awake. A gentleman arrives around 11:30, new to the cancer game. He is angry and belligerent and quite vocal about not wanting to be here or cooperate with the process. I listen, knowing that it won't do me any good to try and allay his fears. He just needs to vent. After he is set up, he finally realizes I am there, looks at me, and asks what I am in for. I tell him. He asks if I am a new patient, and when I tell him I have played the cancer game for nearly a decade, he pelts me with question after question.

Turns out he is a musician who has played with some of the jazz greats of our time. He owns an instrument repair business. When he finds out that I used to work at Eastman, and that I know the musicians he mentions and am impressed, he relaxes. We have a wonderful conversation until I start having the predictable reaction. I call the nurse. She shakes her head. Gotta get the big guns. She consults with the head nurse, and sure enough, here comes the IV stuff. I apologize to my pod mate and tell him I will be asleep shortly. So true.

Before he leaves, he wakes me enough to leave his email. Would I please contact him? He appreciates being able to ask a veteran about treatment options. Hum. A veteran. But OK. I am able to take the whole bag of Rituxan and find myself wobbling down the hall at 5:30 pm, hoping I will be able to drive myself home OK. I know that I can always sit in the car if I am not up to it yet. Fortunately, I can manage and happily head home to Sugar and a provided meal and a quiet night to sleep it off.