A Day In The Life (at Chemo)

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At this point I’ve completed 4 chemotherapy sessions which means I’m 33% closer to being cured.  My sister flew out to California from North Carolina to help out during my last treatment.  I stuck a camera in her hand and we started getting footage of my fight.  I’m considering putting together a film about my experience.  Why not?

My particular chemotherapy cocktail is made up of 4 different cancer-ass-kicking chemicals.  Every type of cancer requires a different mix.  Thankfully, the combo for Hodgkin’s is relatively mild compared to what they use for tumorous cancers, like breast or lunch cancer.  A typical day of chemo, which I have to do every 14 days, isn’t actually that bad.

Every other Thursday morning at 9:30 AM, I drive 10 minutes down to road to my oncologist’s clinic, which is a small practice overlooking a glistening lake.  It resembles a health spa moreso than a clinic, except its patrons are thin and bald instead of tanned and chiseled.  The nurses are always buzzing around like bees, mixing chemicals, taking blood, and answering questions.  The place is always a full house.  Nearly every chemo lounge-chair is taken when I arrive.  I try to scout out the most private looking spot I can.

My nurse’s name is Heather.  She’s in her late 30’s, but she looks 28.  Her eyes are big and bright, and now that I’ve gotten to know her, I’d describe her heart the same way.  I don’t know how a person can work with so many cancer fighters, (I call us “fighters” instead of “patients” or “victims”), day in and day out and stay as positive and sunny as she is.  It’s inspiring.

Heather takes 2 viles of my blood and then brings them back to be tested.  About 10 to 20 minutes later, she returns with a piece of paper listing all my blood stats.  If there’s a smiley face on the piece of paper, that means my levels are normal and I’m awesome.  Okay, it doesn’t mean I’m awesome, but I like to think it does.  A smiley face on that piece of paper puts a smiley on my face.  A tiny feat, really, but when you’re sitting in that chair, even the smallest grain of encouragement is fiercly appreciated.

When my blood work is finished, Heather hooks me up to a rack that has a saline drip dangling from the top.  Then she goes off to tend other fighters while my chemical cocktail is being prepared.  The other nurses are sitting at a station behind a glass window busily preparing peoples’ injections while they chit-chat and giggle.  The atmosphere is almost always quite pleasant.

I am the youngest cancer fighter in the room at any given time.  I look around hoping another 20-something will walk in.  We could share our situations and laugh about how all our friends will likely be out partying over the weekend, while we’ll be at home desperately trying to remedy constipation or steroid bloating. But I haven’t found my match yet.

Although I don’t have someone my age to share with, the other fighters are fabulous! Most of the cancer fighters that come in on Thursday mornings are women in their mid to late 40s battling breast cancer.  It’s scary how many women have breast cancer, by the way.  Many of these gals have advanced stages of breast cancer, yet they seem unbroken, noble and statuesque in the way they sit to receive treatment – goddesses, really.  Unlike me, a lot of them have children at home.  To them, it seems chemo is like another chore on their never ending list of Supermom tasks.  It’s unbelievable!

I love talking to them.  They seem so wise, so strong.  Sometimes, if I start to get caught in the downward spiral that I call “the cancer blues”, I think about the women I’ve met in chemo. I picture them in all their brave glory, standing with full armor at the front line of an Amazonian battle, ready to strike those negative thoughts with piercing arrows.  The corrolation makes sense.  Greek Amazon ladies of lore were known to cut or burn off their right breast so they could weild a bow more easily.  Cool stuff!

A normal chemotherapy session for me lasts about two and a half hours.  Once my chemicals have been properly prepared, Heather administers them one at a time.  3 of the chemicals are injected through a syringe.  One drips from a bag on my rack.  That’s the one that takes the longest.

The process is painless.  None of it actually hurts, but about an hour into my treatment, I begin to experience some side effects.  Generally, my stomach begins to cramp and I get a chemical aftertaste in my mouth.  Then I get really sleepy.  By the end of my two and a half hours, I’m ready to pass out.  And as soon as I get home, I do.

For anywhere from 4 to 8 days after treatment, I go through a number of shitty ailments, all of which are normal side effects of chemotherapy.  Since there are so many and it’s a lot to cover, I’m going to save that stuff for another post. Plus, Cancer Girl is tired and sleep is very important to my full recovery.  So until next time, Adios!

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Tags: cancer, chemotherapy, day in the life, hodgkin's lymphoma, llana barron