ABVD Cocktail

A = Adriamycin
B = Bleomycin
V = Vinblastine
D = Dacarbazine

These four drugs are in my chemotherapy cocktail.  Each comes with its own quirks or problems.

Supplementary medicines:

Emend = anti-nausea
Dexamethasone = steroid
Prochlorperazine = anti-nausea (as needed)
Ondansetron = anti-nausea
*~*~*
I am finally starting to regain the energy and mental prowess chemo absconded with this past week.  I was zonked, which is something I didn't expect this quickly.  It was difficult to deal with.

But, chemo doesn't stop there!  I also have/had:  Random muscle pains, urinary incontinence, severe constipation, and painful esophagus/stomach.  Some side effects are so bad I'm halfway convinced something terrible is going to occur soon.  My mouth always feels coated in something half-innocuous, half-vile.

I'm trying to mitigate damage as much as possible.  Ice cream helps my burning esophagus (small servings of fairly plain kinds or I get nauseous).  Stool softeners are at the ready.  Warmth helps the muscle pain.
*~*~*
I lack the will to do much right now.  Regulating my body feels like a full-time job, but the end results will be worth it.  I'm holding onto thoughts of life post-cancer.

Cancer vs. disease

If the doctor said you had cancer, what would be your first reaction?  What about a disease?  Would it feel the same?  Better?

Cancer carries a death sentence in most people's minds.  It doesn't matter what stage.  The first thing that flashes through their heads is "I could die".  Or worse:  "I'm going to die."

A disease sounds yucky, but it doesn't necessarily mean fatal.  It sounds like someone is sick and can be treated.  There are various diseases.  Cancer is simply a type of disease.

Words matter.  They change our perceptions and possess different amounts of baggage.  If you can't handle thinking about "cancer", think about your "disease".  You're sick.  You aren't dead yet.

There are more statistics than number of deaths.  There are millions of people who've survived cancer.  More will be declared cancer-free tomorrow.  Hope still... and always.

Port placement, blood, and snow

The most frightening thing is the unknown.  What will the test feel like?  What side effects will I have?  Can I even do this?
*~*~*
Port placement is a relatively simple procedure, though the process before and the recovery after take a bit.  In fact, the doctor only works on you for fifteen minutes... tops.  You get a little twilight sedation and numbing agent.  They give you antibiotics.  You turn your head to one side.  Your breast has tape on it that they stick to your leg to recreate gravity while you're lying down.  They put blue paper-cloth around the work area (which might drape over your face a bit).  You have quick imaging before the doctor cuts so they know where your veins lie.  It doesn't hurt beyond the poke of the lidocaine injection.
*~*~*
I made it through fine, though a little woozy from the anesthesia.  When I went to lie down at home however, I started to ooze blood down my chest.

After a few phone calls (and a frightening twenty minutes), I learned I hadn't clotted properly and simply had to sit up longer.  So, after four additional hours of sitting (which isn't easy with my chronic pain) and putting a pad on the wound, everything is fine.  Scary, but I'm fine.  I'm sore for a lot of reasons today.
*~*~*
My first chemo treatment is Monday.  My area has a snowstorm watch for Sunday and Monday.  I might have to reschedule.
 

Rough day (chemo starts January 28th)

You know how some days just go incredibly wrong?  Yesterday was one of those.

*~*~*

At the first appointment, everyone I spoke to thought my port placement was happening that day.  I showed them the paper, but they were not convinced.  They conferred with each other, but no conclusion was made.  Thankfully, the system had the correct day.  Even after they checked the computer, the nurse still had someone walk my husband and me down to the surgery department... and it wasn't to show us for next time.

The second appointment was cancelled.  I wasn't told.  It took us twenty minutes to be told to go to my next appointment.  I snapped at my husband in the elevator because nothing was going right—and I need things to go smoothly when I'm stressed.

The third appointment was my echocardiogram where I ended up needing an IV started so I could receive an injection.  Apparently, there is something they give patients whose heart doesn't show up clearly.  (I'm quite fat and wasn't lying down, so...)  After the exam, I had bands of pain radiating down my biceps.  Strange, but it only lasted five or ten minutes.  Though I experience a lot of different aches, that was new.

At my last appointment, they could only do part of my pulmonary test because I can't sit on a normal chair inside a raised box.  I guess my difficulty with transferring isn't written in my file.

*~*~*

As we get on the van to go home, my husband dropped his headphones and broke them.  He thinks he can fix them with tape.

When we get to our apartment, there was a bill for over $3,000 in our mailbox for my MRI.  I'm not supposed to be responsible for my medical bills (one of the few benefits of being a cripple in poverty).  Something has gone wrong.  I talked to someone about my "prior authorization" rejection recently and they told me not to worry if I haven't received a bill...

I'm just so exhausted.

Three Cycles of Chemotherapy

Late this month, I start chemotherapy for stage one Hodgkin Lymphoma.  Potential side effects:  Nausea, vomiting, fatigue, trashed immune system, hair loss, neuropathy, and heart/lung damage; some side effects are temporary. I will need a port put in for treatment.

If I understood correctly, I will be receiving one dose of chemo every two weeks for a grand total of six doses.  Yes, most of my time will be spent feeling like hell, but there isn't much else to be done.  Yes, I'm nervous.  My body doesn't handle things well most of the time.  Yes, I'm scared.

There are currently no plans to combine chemotherapy with radiation, which is the standard procedure.  My oncologist said it might cause me more problems down the road.  I've already had radiation once in my life, if I can limit further exposure, it's probably for the best.  We can always reconsider if we must.

It doesn't feel like Christmas (and appointments)

I have over 240 Christmas songs on a playlist.  My white tree glows softly with lights that remind me of multi-hued fireflies.  There are three bags of candy in my freezer; presents festooned with self-adhesive bows beneath the tree, and daily Christmas specials on my television.  And yet, it could be April.

My mind just can't settle into a holiday groove.  If I feel it at all, my brain slips off like Teflon.  It isn't something I can force.  There are too many other things to think and feel.

It bothers me that I can't find enjoyment.  This could possibly be the last Christmas I ever have (though I'm hoping not), and I can't even feel the warmth of the season.  I'm being cheated as I race through the dark.  The bleakness itself is punishing.  There is nothing fair about cancer.

On January 2nd, I have a PET scan scheduled.  January 4th will include labs and an appointment with my oncologist.  My 2019 is screeching in with uncertainty, and it's not the tingly, anticipatory kind.

Record transference

Eleven days gone since I was told I have Hodgkin's.  No appointments are made.  A week ago, someone from City Block Hospital said they'd see what was taking so long.  Silence.

"You can't sit on this, it goes fast," Dr. H. said to me during Cancer Announcement (2018 edition).

I decide to see what I can do without a long-distance plan on my phone.  I don't own a cellphone.  I must be an online sleuth when I call doctors—the apparent numbers for lines are never toll-free.

The hospital I want my cancer treatment through is the one that referred me to City Block Hospital.  The doctors there need my updated records.  I played 40 minutes of phone-tag this morning.  Turns out, I can't request my own records from CBH to send them elsewhere.  I can't see the doctor who saw me last year without them.

I might be looking at a suspension in motion until after the new year.  I'm trying not to panic over the sluggishness.  I'm trying not to panic over what my life will be like once everything is go, go, go.

In this silence, breathe... I tell myself, ...and live.