So, what is chemotherapy like anyway?
I am often asked...
I am sometimes asked...
Somebody asked me once *..."What is chemotherapy like?" I'm sure a lot of people put off finding out if they have cancer, often worrying unnecessarily because they haven't, because they have unpleasant images of what it's all about. My incredibly supportive wife, Susan, and my somewhat more reluctant son, Sam, have both accompanied me to chemo sessions to provide support, learn what it's all about and to write down all the instructions and answers to questions I get. So here's what a typical chemo session looks like for me at Cancer Care of WNC.
My appointments are usually at 8 a.m. or 8.30 a.m. every Tuesday as this is a convenient time for me - as I work part-time, it sometimes means I miss work and sometimes I don't. I find it easier than trying to figure out what day in my 7 day work cycle the next 3 Tuesdays are only to find out I have ignored some vital event that renders a work day a non-work day. Jackie at school handles my absences with professional aplomb, arranging someone to look after a class that is working on a project or an all-morning substitute teacher if that's what's really needed.
After dropping Sam at school early (he doesn't complain), I head for Cancer Care and squeak in pretty close to 8 a.m. After checking in and confirming my name and date of birth, I typically have time to get my overnight email before I am called in to be weighed. Having verified my name and birthday again, they ask me how tall I am (still 6'2" as far as I know). The scales are in kilograms which suits me fine as my weight hovers around the 100 kg mark which makes it easy for me to see if I have gained or lost any weight. (I've actually lost the equivalent of a decent sized Christmas turkey since this lot started). They very kindly convert my weight to pounds which I find useless but no matter. They also take my blood pressure and either tut-tut or say "That's ok, then" except for a few weeks ago when I had been up since 3 a.m. binge drinking strong English tea which had sent my blood pressure into "top up your shock absorbers" territory.
Once that's done, I get sent back to the waiting room where I have time to delete all my junk email before I get called by the person taking the blood sample. After confirming my name etc, an armful is taken and sent off to the lab to make sure that I am healthy enough to withstand the chemo. Then it's off either to a small backroom or, with luck, to the big room with half a dozen other chemo patients. The big room has the advantage of a stunning view over downtown Asheville and the Smokey Mountains.
It'll be a while before the results of the blood tests come back so I get to answer the same group of questions to determine my state of mind and body.
- How many times have I fallen over this week? (So far the answer has always been zero except for the week I was standing on a slippery rock and managed to drop an 8' length of 2"x8" on my head - apparently this didn't count.)
- Have I had any feelings of wanting to hurt myself or anyone else? (Answers about certain people crossing the road in front of my car don't count).
- Do I hurt anywhere? (This is a symptom of multiple myeloma and in my case it comes and goes)
- How's my bowels? (Fine thanks, how's yours?)
I then get about 15 - 30 minutes to myself to read, watch the changing weather, check email or something before the sad-looking guy from the pharmacy arrives with my syringe full of yellow gunk. There is much verification of etc and a few other things before I am asked to expose my "belly fat" (Ruth, I will never forgive you for calling it that - it's relaxed muscle). There's a choice of how you get your chemo - either plastic bagful dripped into your arm or a quickish jab in some soft bit of your body. I'm not sure if I chose the latter or the doc did but I prefer it. Depending who is administering it, the shot is either a quick squirt or a slow pump. Considering I am getting a drop over 3 mg, it doesn't take very long either way though I will admit that there is a point in the slower jab when I suddenly notice how bloody cold the chemo is.
Quick wipe with a drop of alcohol or something and maybe a Bandaid and then it's time to have my BP taken again. Once that's done I can tuck in my shirt and wander away. I usually feel a little wobbly at this point which I put down to my lack of love for having needles stuck in me. I always park at the far end of the parking lot (unless it's raining) so the walk gets me back on an even keel.
I then have about an hour before the chemo starts to kick in (I have already taken 13 chemo pills and 10 steroid tablets on chemo day so it may be them kicking in). Anyway, the effect I start to feel is a mixture of "Where's the lion with the sore tooth?" and "Anyone got a rock I can crawl under?" combined with either ravening hunger or mild nausea at the thought of food or both. (I have not barfed at all during the last 3 months, nor has my hair fallen out). Some days I go back to school and carry on a fairly normal day though I am typically ready to fall in a heap by about 1 pm. Some days I head home and try to do something useful but not too challenging (no ladders, please).
And that is chemo day, at least until what is generally accepted as bedtime which is when the real crap-shoot can begin...
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