A Day In the Chemo Life

I have one chemotherapy treatment left and I thought it would be good for me to recount what a day and week of chemo have been like for me. Chemotherapy affects everyone differently and, of course, not everyone is on the same course of drugs, doses, or frequency. Hence, my story is just my story, and does not reflect what it is like for others. Still, if I had read a complete account beforehand I would have had a better idea of what to expect. Maybe.

The basic schedule of my chemotherapy regime was eighteen weeks long. Six rounds. Each round began with carbo-platin and taxol given on Day 1, a Thursday. This first Thursday of the round involves more extensive blood tests and an office visit with my doctor or nurse practioner. The following two Thursdays, days 8 and 15, were days I only received the taxol.  I felt good on Thursdays and Fridays. I would go to work for half a day on Fridays.  Saturdays and Sundays are my low days that I need more rest on and don’t have the energy to focus on things. Mondays I come out of the chemo fog, so I put in a half day of work. Tuesdays and Wednesdays have been good days, so I often put in full days. Every Thursday for the past five months I have spent the mornings and early afternoons at the Esther Marie Hatton Cancer Center at St. Elizabeth receiving my treatments.

Thursdays are days I’ve gotten to sleep in a bit. Usually my appointment would be at 8:30 am (sometimes as early as 8:00 am or late as 9:30 am . I get up at 7:00 am to give myself my blood thinner shot. I get ready, making sure to choose a top that makes it easy for the nurse to access my port. (The port-a-cell was inserted in early June for easy access for blood draws and administering medicines and chemotherapy.) I also put a bit of lidocaine on the port and cover it with plastic wrap so that it has an hour to work its magic. I use this to avoid a bit of annoying pain. When the nurse attaches my port to the drip line there is a decent pinch. The lidocaine masks that. It’s not a big deal, and I have forgotten to apply it once or twice so I endured the pain. But I figure any pain that doesn’t have to be felt shouldn’t. It helps save my strength for bearing other things. Plus, it has helped me to not fear that approach the nurse has when she comes at me with that contraption with the stick and tubes because I know it won’t hurt me.

Mom and Dad have gone with me to almost all of my treatments (they have selflessly given me their Thursdays and their time, home, and love throughout the past five months. They are my heroes.) We pile in Dad’s car with my bag of supplies. Fortunately for me, the cancer care center is about fifteen minutes from their house and in an area very familiar to all three of us. Some of the patients there have to travel a much longer distance to a place that doesn’t feel like home.

A warm welcome is always waiting for me at the front desk when I check in. After 18 weeks, they know me on sight.

Gina, the receptionist at the front desk, checks me in as soon as she sees. Mom and Dad scope out their seats in the waiting room by the coffee machine and the cookies. I like the soft chocolate chip cookies, so I take a few for the back room. Either Mom or Dad will go back with me, as there is space for only one person to accompany me to the actual treatment room.

My nurse for the day comes to get me, asking the now frequent question of my name and birthdate. The treatment room has actually two areas, a kind of figure eight with the nurses’ station and desk in the middle. One side is larger than the other. The outer edge of the room is rimmed with reasonably comfortable lounge chairs for the cancer patients. I usually choose one away from the television on the wall. While I get myself organized and Mom or Dad finds a chair next to mine, my nurse gathers her supplies to get me hooked up.

The treatment chairs at the cancer care center.

There is a tray that I pull over my lap for my supplies and later my meal. It might look a bit like a little old lady’s bingo table with all of her trinkets and lucky charms, but really it’s all my artillery. The chair is my battle station, and I need to keep my head in the right space. So I pull out of my bag several items. My Comfort Cross. My cell phone. A Pooh Bear. Coloring pens or pencils. An inspirational picture to color, often with scripture on it. A Sprite Zero, cup of ice, and two cranberry juice cups to make my “spritzer”. In my lap is a prayer blanket my cousin Jenni gave me. These items keep me from thinking dark thoughts, combining comfort from my faith, childhood, creative side, and my network of people who love me.

My nurse cleans up the port site, which is located above my right breast for easy and comfortable access, and prepares to hook me up. I don’t know the technical term for the stick and the line that she attaches to me. She feels around for the solid lump that is just below the surface of my skin. It’s about the size of a quarter and 75 cents thick. When she gets a good sense of where the placement is she counts to three and sticks it in. I don’t feel anything but pressure. A protective bandage goes over the area. First she pulls out the preservative liquid (I forget the name) that they put in at the end of my last one. Next she draws blood out. It’s weird to see my blood coming out of my chest into tubes but not feel it—I feel disconnected and can only briefly ponder what is happening. Then it rushes upon me and I have to look away from the connection and the flow.

Here I am with my line attached to my port. Trust me, it doesn't hurt.

After the blood draw is done (anywhere from one to four tubes depending on the week), she flushes out the line so that it is ready to receive next. I like this step. It puzzles my nurses, but no one else has my memories. The sense of smell triggers strong memories. When she flushes out the line she uses a sodium chloride solution that we patients can either taste or smell. I smell it, and happy memories of playing in the chemistry labs at Thomas More College rush upon me. In an instant I am spinning on the stools with Jeff or sporting Mom or Dad’s lab coat while we wash beakers and flasks. Happy family memories. It’s one of the best parts of my chemo day and the nurses think I’m nuts because no one else likes it.

A few of my coloring projects that have kept me focused on the right things.

Now we wait for the blood results. This can take anywhere from a half hour to two hours, depending on how busy the lab is. Last week’s took two hours because they have a new system in place with more checks. It’s during this time that Mom and I work on a daily word puzzle we found we like to do together. If Dad is with me he reads and I color. I really like the prayerful, therapeutic nature of coloring. It’s peaceful, creative, productive, and cheerful. It’s time for me to just be with Jesus while in the cancer center. And He is definitely there. Sometimes I forget He is with me, and I see Him sitting with someone else who has a situation much more dire than mine. He is there lending strength and reassurance in the family and friends sitting next to them and in the nurses who offer their wisdom and soothing touch.

Once the blood tests reveal that my counts are good and I am cleared for treatment, the nurse puts in the orders with the pharmacy. My pre-meds are delivered. These are anti-nausea medicines that help me to handle the chemo. Thankfully they have done their job well. Zofran and decadron take the first twenty minutes to drip through my port. Then the next twenty minutes are busy. Pepsid and Benadryl are the last pre-meds. By this time with all these new fluids, I have needed to make at least one trip to the restroom. I unplug the pump machine from the wall and take the IV pole with me.  It’s on a battery pack, so it continues to do it’s job. I try to go the closest restroom as Benadryl makes me very loopy and sleepy. I really shouldn’t have a license to drive the IV pole! Before Benadryl has finished dripping into me, lunch comes. I get a hot meal each time I am there. The fried chicken, mashed potatoes, mac n cheese and green beans hit the spot when chemo is up ahead.

I can usually tell when the Pepsid-Benadryl mix is done, as my eyelids are very heavy. Sometimes I miss when my nurse administers the chemo because I am in dreamland. But usually I am aware of her showing up in her plastic protective gown and mask. She protects herself from exposure to the chemo, hangs a bag labeled with the cautionary icons for chemotherapy, and hooks it up to my line. She sets the pump for one hour titration, and I drift off. An hour later I hear the loud beeping from the pump that signals we are done. Aside from still feeling sleepy I don’t feel any different.

The nurses' station in the cancer care center with a few mobile computers. They have individual computers on carts that they pull up to the patients to do the chart work. It is a busy but very organized place.

My nurse turns off the beeping and disconnects the line from my port. She disposes of the whole contraption of tubing in the sharps bio-hazard container. She prints out a report for me that summarizes the medicines and procedures done that day and the upcoming appointments. I’ve been tracking my numbers, so I like to take the report with me. Plus, it helps me to keep track of my appointments.

When I get home I lay low for the rest of the day. I will usually sleep for another hour or two. Once the Benadryl wears off, I feel good. I find it difficult to sleep on Thursday nights because one of the pre-meds is a steroid that keeps me up. For this reason I usually only work a half day on Fridays. I feel fine, but I need to catch up on my sleep. I’ve never really felt sick to the point that I might vomit. There were a few times that I felt nauseated, but I took some of the anti-nausea medicine and it backed off. Generally, I just don’t have the energy. But that will come back, as will my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes.

My last treatment is scheduled for this Thursday. I’m excited. It’s like the finish line of a marathon is in my sight. Crossing it doesn’t mean running is over. It just means that this leg, this race is complete. There is more to do—CAT scan and doctor’s appointment about the follow up that I will have to do for the rest of my life, both of which are the following week. I am by no means done dealing with this topic of my cancer, but I should be done with the chemo.