Steeling myself.....

I've been steeling myself to write this particular post. Read on and you'll find out why!....

Much as I try to put a positive spin on this chemo lark I've got myself into, the honest to goodness truth is that it sucks. Big time. And if that doesn't give you an insight into how I feel, if someone told me I'd have to do this again, as of today, I really don't think I'd be able to face it.

Of course, once the bad things that afflict us are over, we tend to forget them, and that's one of the truly amazing things about the human mind, the ability to endure an unpleasant experience and then erase it from our data banks. Take child birth. In the delivery room, most mothers (at least those not having a chemically enhanced delivery) swear blind they will never, ever, ever have another child -- but they forget, and soon enough, there they are again, shouting and cursing and -- you get my point.

So what's so awful about the chemo, you ask? Well, I've been trying to understand it myself, so if I take you through the last eight weeks maybe that will help me get a handle on it.

The first treatment was actually a piece of cake. I'd been looking forward to starting because it seemed to me that the sooner I started the quicker I'd be healed, and I was fed up with waiting. All those darn tests and appointments, scopes and what-nots had driven me nuts, and I was glad to get going. I knew what to expect -- tired and icky -- but it only lasted about four days and then I was back to my usual self. Nothing to it!

Two weeks later, I went back for more of the same and it really wasn't too bad. Tired and icky again, just like being pregnant. This time I noticed that certain smells were bothering me and I had a tough time deciding what to eat. The unsettled feeling lasted the whole week but then I bounced back and felt just fine again. Though I wasn't quite as excited about going back to the infusion room to do it again.

After treatment #3 it took ten days to get back to normal. I tried to get things that needed doing done in the morning because by the afternoon I was out cold on the sofa having a nap marathon. My innards were not at all happy with the toxic assault to which they were being subjected, and the only thing that kept things on an even keel was a steady supply of hot water and honey.

I had to summon up all the reserves of my British upbringing to make it to #4. I really, but really, didn't want to go. The thought of feeling awful again and knowing it was going to last longer did not make me happy, however much I tried to remind myself that this was the LAST of the AC treatments.

Why is it that the anticipation of something we don't want to face is always so much worse than the actual event? It reminded me of the time I took my twins to a new pediatrician for their annual physical. Dimity and Emma must have been about six. The lovely young doctor had a fairly sparsely furnished exam room with a wall-mounted sink and an examination table. The two girls sat on the table, swinging their legs, and I sat on the chair. Everyone was happy, this was fun. "Who wants to go first?" she asked. We'd planned ahead (if you don't do that with twins, everything turns into a battle.) Ears, nose, chest -- everything was fine. "Show me your finger" and BAM! -- the dreaded finger stick. Emma let out her specialty train whistle imitation. Dimity, next in line, went white. Faster than you could blink, she'd done a visual recce, jumped off the table, and retreated behind the plumbing under the sink. It took ages to dislodge her. The doctor left in disgust to see another patient.

So with the visual image of my daughter wedged behind a sink, and not wanting to be the wimp who skipped #4, I turned up as commanded by the great Dr. Z, and got myself plugged in. The actual chemo treatment, doesn't really bother you. I always feel a little dizzy, but Val the Vein Nurse says that's the steroids and that passes soon enough.

The cumulative effect of the eight weeks of the AC treatments is really unpleasant. In my case, and I expect others suffer the same symptoms, it's all about the stomach. The chemicals are killing the fast-growing cancer cells, but the science isn't precise enough yet to prevent good cells getting whacked at the same time. Unfortunately, the mucus cells that line the esophagus and stomach are particularly sensitive to the chemo so there is tremendous acidity and burning and a general feeling of malaise. It's difficult to describe. It helps to keep nibbling on things like crackers and ginger cookies, but once you've eaten the burning starts again.

Anyway, I survived #4, put up with the burning esophagus and even managed a long weekend road trip to Canada, so life still continues even when you're on chemo. And I'm happy to report that the memory is starting to fade.

These lovely ladies are the fantastic Val (Solis) the Vein Nurse, often mentioned in this blog, and her cohort, Karen Vail. I guess we could call her Vail the Vein Nurse. Val and Vail! Actually, that's kind of cute! These wonderful women take care of their patients in the infusion room with kindness, efficiency and dignity. Thank you, both, for making it all so much easier to bear.