Chemo day. I have been trying to look forward to this day because this is the stuff that is going to kill what is trying to kill me. These are the little soldiers I need. But now that the day is here, well maybe I am not so excited.

Andrew drove me. Boy did that make me feel guilty. I can just see when he gets back to school. So, dude, what did you do for spring break, beach every day, golf, basketball tourney, what? Uh, took my mom to her chemo treatment. Yeah lots of fun. I am so sorry Andrew, but so grateful too.

Anyway, I walk in to the chemo room and take a chair. This is a fairly small room with large comfortable recliners around the perimeter. Behind each chair is an IV setup and between each is a plastic rolling cart with medical supplies. This way the nurses have what they need right next to each patient. I like to look out the window, so I took a chair as close to the window as I could, next to a man in his late 20’s, early 30’s who was already plugged in.

The etiquette of the chemo room is tricky. Most of you know me as a nosy person. I like to talk to people and hear their story. No one does that in the chemo room. I guess what would you say? So what are you in for? Doesn’t sound quite right.

A older man across the room said he needed to go to the bathroom. It was obvious he would require help, so the nurse called in a male aide. All of a sudden the old man fell asleep. The aide was trying to wake him but couldn’t. I was thinking this is not a good sign. One of the nurses came over to help and she couldn’t rouse him at first either. She got a blood pressure cuff on him and unhooked the IV, told the aide to get the doctor and call 911. The poor man had gone into some sort of shock. Finally, he came around, and poor thing still had to pee. The paramedics come and roll him away. What a great first chemo day.

Ok, my turn. Uh, I will pass on the drugs that put me into a coma ok? They didn’t seem to think that was very funny.

My chemo port is supposed to make iv access easy. It was supposed to go: spray my skin with a cooling agent to numb it, feel for the port access, deep breath and pop in the needle. Relatively easy and pain free. Of course, I can’t be so lucky. The nurse sprays and is feeling for the port, but can’t seem to find it very easily. She sticks the needle in but it won’t go in the port. Again, she tries, no luck. This time she calls over the more experienced nurse. She tries, nope. They decide one should hold it in place and the other stick the needle in. No luck. Again and again - 7 times! By this time, I am trying not to scream. The area where they put the port in is still very tender and they keep digging around with an iv needle to find the opening for this stupid port. I don’t want to disturb everyone else in the room by crying out, so I am digging holes in the arms of the chair and tears are flowing down my face. Finally, they decide the port has flipped around and isn’t going to work, so they stop. Thank God! The poor young man next to me was so very nice. Oh hunny, he said, just cry out, you aren’t disturbing me. His mother was in and out bringing him things and she wrote her name and number for me telling me she was available if I ever just needed someone to cry to.

Chemo is going to happen that day though. They start an iv drip in my arm. Compared to what they were doing, it is nothing! They start with an anti-anxiety and anti-nausea drip first. The ativan is to relax you and allow the chemo to spread through your body. To be honest, it didn’t seem to do much for me. Maybe I was too worried about the next step. Was it going to burn or make me sick right away? I had no idea what to expect. They tell you lots on the internet, but not the day to day details and of course they always say “It’s different for everyone.” Well then what good are they for me?

Anyway, back to chemo. It doesn’t burn, hurt or tickle. Just a regular iv. I did get a little woozy and was glad I had brought a movie to watch through earphones. The chemo room has a tv in it that blares rather loudly, people are coming and going, the nurses talking etc. so escaping into a movie was the best option for me. I can also see how nice music and just closing your eyes also might be a way to get through.

The whole process takes about 2 1/2 hours and so finally I was through. Again, I didn’t know what to expect when I was done. Would I be puking on the ride home? No, it doesn’t kick in that fast.

The medical and the surgical oncologists conferred and decided they needed to go back in and check out what is wrong with the port. Another surgery, another hill. Over to the surgeon’s office from chemo. Great. Surgery the next day to check out the port, maybe move it up a little, or flip it over. No big deal.

You know, I don’t remember much about getting home and that night in general. I think I ate dinner and watched tv. Was Idol on? I really don’t remember. Isn’t that weird?

Back to the hospital the next morning. Andrew again. But first I had to stop in to the oncologist and get my Neulasta shot. This stuff stimulates white blood cell regeneration by promoting bone marrow output. This means your bones ache, especially your lower back. Well especially, my lower back. But thankfully only for a few days.

The surgery went fine. The only problem being finding a vein for my iv. Fortunately, one of the nurses from my prior visit was there that day and remembered my name. (I am so unforgettable. Actually, I was giving her advice for her boyfriend on his custody case. There is no escape.) She came over as a nurse was trying to insert the iv in my hand, this after I wouldn’t let her do it in my wrist. She took over and easily accessed my arm. (For the next 5 years, I can not have blood taken or my blood pressure taken on my right side as it could damage the lymph node system.)

My surgeon said the port was bad. I think that might be surgeon speak for he screwed up and needs to blame it on someone else. But anyway, they put in a new one, stitched me up and sent me home, where I slept for the next 3 days.