Typical chemo day

The alarm went off at 6 am, plenty of time to pad downstairs in my bathrobe and slippers for a leisurely cup of coffee. Paul and I plop down in front of the tv while he catches up on SportsCenter and I check my blog. For an hour, we have the house to ourselves before the boys wake up and begin their morning routine.

At 7:30, Paul and I pull out of the garage, feeling a little guilty about leaving the boys to get ready for the bus on their own. They're 12 now, I remind myself. They can do this. We have trustworthy neighbors on all sides of us who would jump in at a moment's notice, and the boys are proud of the freedom and trust we give them. Still, they're my babies, and I like being able to look out my dining room window and watch them climb on the big yellow school bus.

My appointment for chemo isn't until 9:00, but the unpredictability of Atlanta traffic necessitates leaving lots of extra time for delays, detours, and general driver silliness. We pull in the parking garage at St. Joseph's a few minutes before 9:00, having traveled a grand total of only 18 miles from our house. I get to the chemo suite with plenty of time to claim my favorite chair.

Today, my nurse Miss Alice, a 63 year-old veteran who likes to call us "her girls", gives me a big hug and asks about my Christmas. She liked hers, but she's glad it's over. Miss Alice, quite uncharacteristically, has trouble accessing my port and has to stick me twice. I easily forgive her because I know the drugs she's about to infuse into me will make me not care.

I've got my teal bracelet, my teal socks with the nonskid surface -- good for the multitude of treks to the bathroom over the course of the day, thanks saline -- and my teal and peach prayer beads on. Later, I'll hook up my iPhone and listen to my guided imagery meditations. Right now Paul and I are just enjoying our time together, even if he's on his laptop and I'm on my iPad. It's nice to be comfortable.


It's about 10:30 now, and I'm still getting my pre-meds. Two different ones for nausea, a steroid, Pepsid, and ten times the over-the-counter dose of Benedryl, plus a huge bag of saline. It will be interesting to see how my writing holds up once these all sink in.

My eyesight is starting to get a little fuzzy now, and I'm feeling rather mellow. Just a bit more Benedryl, then the Taxol begins. 


OK,Taxol, it's time to get to work. Search. Kill. Destroy. Your compatriot, Carbo, will be along in a few hours to relieve you. Now it's time to stumble to the bathroom - my infusion machine is portable so it goes everywhere with me. The drowsies are here. 


Sometime around noon, Paul did my bidding and went to Alon's, a fabulous market/bakery that has a store nearby. Their original in-town location is in the Virginia-Highlands section of Atlanta, where I used to live before I married and moved to the 'burbs. They started out as a little bakery making bread and pastries. Then they added sandwiches, and it took off from there. Now, they're a gourmet food shop, with wines and cheeses from around the world, ready made gourmet delicacies, and still, wonderful sandwiches. Paul bought my favorite, the Tuscany...a heavenly concoction of roasted eggplant (aubergine for you Brits and French), sundried tomatoes, arugula, and goat cheese. I just finished mine and writing about it now makes me crave another one. OK, maybe that's the steroids talking. 

I tried chatting on Facebook with a friend while Paul was gone, but that was a disaster. I kept falling asleep while I waited for her to reply. Epic fail. 

Also, I tried taking a picture of myself in my infusion chair, but I looked so stoned I decided it best not to share it on the Internet. You never know when I might run for public office.


We're down to the last few minutes now, and one of the nursing assistants handed me my schedule for the next cycle. When I reviewed it, it was nonsense to me. I asked Miss Alice to come over, except I called her Miss Mary by mistake, and explained that something was wrong. The conversation went something like this:

Me: I usually have a Day 10 blood draw, where is that?
Her: It's right here, sweetheart. See?
Me: I also always have a draw on the Friday before chemo.
Her: (oh-so-kind and oh-so-patient) Yes, honey, it's there. And then your next chemo is on the 29th.

Suddenly, I realized my schedule looked exactly like the schedules for my three previous treatment cycles. Exactly. My brain was just trying to read it in ancient Arameic at first. Another day, I'll write about the phenomenon of chemo brain. Hopefully, cancer cells don't like stupid.


An uneventful drive home, and here I am back in my La-Z-Boy, trying to have a coherent conversation with the boys about their days at school. I need to give up and go to bed.