Now, it Begins…
It’s been a long, hot summer with family around most of the time. But no cancer treatment, a good thing so I could fully enjoy them.
Big girl pants, the time has come. It’s September 11.
I’m scheduled to have my port implanted in two days, at 8:00 in the morning. So, another hotel stay to avoid having to wake at 5:00 a.m. so that we’ll be on time. We’ve had to do this several times on this journey and we’ve turned them into mini-vacays and dinners out together. There will surely be more. Lemons to lemonade, a lifelong skill!
I have been nervous about the port placement. But once again the nurses there added some conscious sedation to my IV so that it would be bearable. And it was, just pretty sore afterwards when the lidocaine wore off. I’ll get to see if my new mattress will keep me on my back.
It feels weird having a foreign object in my shoulder, and I don’t particularly like it. But it’s really the most efficient way to receive my transfusions. A few people who have used their veins have seen them turn black from the poisonous liquid. Chemotherapy saves many, many lives, but it also has a well-known dark side.
After a long, dry period, things are moving quickly because the clinical trial is about to reopen. And they are nothing if not thorough at Fred Hutch. My port is in place now. Next week I’ll have another PET scan. Then I’ll have my third bone marrow aspiration right after that. And the last procedure that I know of is a heart exam called a MUGA scan, which is a trip through a machine with some liquids in my vein to check the status of my heart. This last test is to see if my heart is strong enough to tolerate the chemotherapy.
After months of delay and frustration, it looks like I’m about to start climbing that mountain. I’m feeling energized and optimistic. To fight the feeling that my life is out of control, I try to stay as well-organized as possible. I bought a “chemo cap” from Amazon which, when kept very cold, you put on just before the infusions begin. The rationale is that the cold will insulate my hair cells from the harmful chemotherapy, preventing my hair from falling out or at least helping it grow back quickly. I’m not optimistic about its efficacy, but I’m willing to try anything to feel “normal” during the process. And I have a pile of scarves and bandanas to cover my head if necessary.
My friends have donated them all to me. Because of all the support I’ve been given from so many, this has not been a lonely journey. Even if I can’t fully prepare for what comes next, I know that I am in the loving arms of friends, family, and God, most of all. I know that, from beginning to end, I will never be alone.
Thanks for sharing this important story!
Lynn