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In the life I lived before I became a cancer patient, I never gave a thought to what chemotherapy actually was. I'm the sort of person who's fascinated by all sorts of weird and wonderful things -- but finding out about chemotherapy wasn't on my To-Do List. I thought it was a bunch of pills. Well, let me enlighten you. Chemotherapy is nothing as simple as a bunch of pills -- it's a lifestyle and takes up huge chunks of time and leads to all sorts of worrying and fussing. I'll walk you through some of the highlights of my chemo experiences to date. Once I'd finished with all the scanning and testing that the charming Dr. Z had signed me up for, I was given the green light for chemo. I was to report on Monday morning, every two weeks. On arrival you get a number on a blue card and go to the blood draw room for a finger stick. Your blood is sent off to check for white and red counts, which show whether you're in good enough shape to take the chemo. Then you're weighed, your vitals are taken and the good Dr. Z comes to poke and prod you, ask endless questions, all to make sure you're not sick in any way at all. If everything is A-OK, you bag a chair in the infusion room, wait while the nurses custom-mix your drugs according to Dr. Z's recipe, and finally get hooked up. Getting the drugs doesn't hurt at all, which is one positive thing. The whole process from arrival to departure takes about four hours. You spend the rest of the day feeling a bit foggy. The day after your infusion, you have to get a shot in the arm, so back you go to the hospital, get a number on a yellow card from the ladies at the desk and wait until the nurses spot you. The shot is something called Neulasta, and it gives your white blood cells a boost -- and makes you feel achy, as if you had the flu. Wonderful. The reason for the pre-chemo testing is that if there's any infection, you get a big F on your report card and are sent home with a prescription for antibiotics. Standing orders are that if your temperature is over 100.5 you head straight to the ER. The chemo drugs are so toxic they destroy both the bad cancer cells as well as perfectly good cells that are just going about their daily business. It's heavy artillery that knocks out everything within range. Nothing subtle about it. I hope that one of these days they'll develop fine-tuned drugs that can zoom in on their target more accurately, but for now this is what we have. So the day I blew my nose and saw a version of Benjamin Moore's Grasshopper (a lovely paint shade that looks fantastic in my mudroom and picks up the color of the slate on the floor) on my Kleenex, I knew I was in for it. I sent Dr. Z a text. "I think I've got a cold." Two minutes later he's on the phone. "What's going on? You need to come in. I'll see you in half an hour." The man is relentless. Back to the hospital. Another finger stick. More waiting. Another chance to get weighed, poked and prodded. Another half a day lost. I went home feeling ghastly and spent three anxious days sleeping, taking my temperature and antibiotics, knocking back Tylenol like it was going out of fashion and drinking honey and lemon. After eight weeks, I was done with the first round of chemo and I'd survived. Phew!
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