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October 25, 2007 (Day 61)
I'm discharged from the hospital and escorted to the physicians tower for my Chemo. Feeling of dread, but strangely excited. Weird, I know. I'm really anxious  about having my port accessed. It's so sore and the anticipation of inflicted pain just isn't settling well with me today. I confess to the nurse that I changed the dressing at home before I was admitted cause it looked icky. (Nurses are always your worst patient) I was scolded sweatly and ever so quickly. Here comes the needle. Ouch! Kinda like plucking an eyebrow only worse. I'm shaking, hyper-verbal (I do that when I get nervous) and asking a hundred questions. The nurses are very patient with me. I soak in all around me. The aqua blue Chemo thrones lined up. 10 chairs. Seven of them empty. Are they dead, cured or just taking the day off? It's cold. I'm told they keep the room cool to help ward of nausea. I'm given my gifts. A bag, blanket, lip balm and water bottle from a drug rep. Love those guys. My blood was drawn in the hospital so they already have the results.
They have the routine down pat. First, weigh in. Second, choose your throne and access port. Third, draw blood. Fourth, hang saline, Fifth, meet with Dr. Martin . Sixth, administer meds like pepcid, something to help my platelets and decadron. Seventh, hang chemo. I sit there staring at the bag. Drip, drip, drip. Everything goes blurry. Oh, I guess because I'm crying again, duh. I thought I’d shed the chicken feathers...It's surreal watching the chemo drip into my body. I guess that means it's official. I've got cancer. But, I became a survivor the day I was diagnosed. At least that's what I'm told. I don't want to lose my hair. I don't want to suffer the effects of chemo. The others in the room are in good spirits, bald, beautiful and smiling. They're inquisitive about me too. Kinda like kindergarten and I'm the new kid. Is it ovarian? breast?...no uterine. Then I explain my diagnosis sounding like an expert. I can even pronounce and spell the nasty word without hesitation. LIEOMYOSARCOMA. It helps to have other women like me going through the same thing. It doesn't take long to bond. It's like chemo glue. I tell them I'm writing a book and looking for people to share their stories. No volunteers. Guess the glue has to dry first. |
