Sympathy for the Red Devil.

It has been a while since an update. What a crazy time, too. I have had x-rays, bone scans, and outpatient surgery to put a port under my skin. I have cut my hair super short and shopped for headwear and it all has been very fast, very emotional, and exhausting. Last Thursday, I had my first chemo infusion and all the reading and conversations in no way prepared me for what it was like. Let's just say that I understand the looks of pity now from breast cancer survivors. I get the hugs and the vague descriptions and all that. It sucks pretty bad.

My mom and Ken went with me. It started with lab work. They drew all this blood from my new easy access port- which is creepy by the way, how I now have this direct line to my major vein where things can be injected and withdraw at record speeds. They checked my blood and then I met with Dr. V who smiled and acted like this was no biggie. She went over the expected side effects one more time. She chatted about her upcoming vacation and always having her cell phone. She joked about Ken and his motorcycle. (They are trained actors, these oncology folks, and thank God for that.)

After that, I went into the infusion room. I was with the "yellow" group. The infusion room is a big room filled with hospital recliners. Each recliner has an iv stand and a television. They are all in a circle and facing one another. There are colored pillows on them. They know how long you have been there based on your color. We "yellows" consisted of me, a couple of older men and a woman. Almost everyone had a buddy. They had heated blankets and drinks and snacks. Just so you know where your donations may go, while I was there, the American Cancer Society made a delivery of chips and such. People try to eat a little while the chemo is going on because you feel sick almost immediately.

They started me with an iv of Benadryl and some steroid. I think they do this to pretty much get you drunk before the evil comes. I felt loopy and light headed almost instantly. My mom can verify because I am pretty sure I was talking sloppy nonsense to her. It took about 45 minutes for this concoction to drip out, then came the "red devil." The "red devil" is Adriamycin and it is super red which freaked me out to begin with. The nurse did an iv push with this- meaning she just plunged two big syringe-fuls of it straight into my port. As soon as it entered my blood, I got super Spidey senses. I smelt every smell in that room- the plastic, the Sprite, the metal- and it all turned my stomach. The good news is that I was drunk, sleepy, and with an incredibly chatty oncology nurse (who distracted me with chatter about my kids.) I love that nurse but I hate that red devil.

After the push, I got an iv drip of the second drug, cytoxan. It took about another 45 minutes to drip out. I am glad it took a while because I felt so out of it the entire time, I was wondering how I was going to be able to walk out of there. Turns out at the end, I felt almost normal again. In fact, afterwards, I felt fine. I had lunch with mom. I met my plastic surgeon. I bought a wedding gift and picked up C from school. It was all fine until that night when the worst case of nausea hit. I took all the medicine. It just sucked...and it continues to suck off and on. My appetite is shot.  Almost everything turns my stomach, and I am so, so, so tired. My head aches. I keep thinking I have a tight ponytail in. I am considering just sleeping through the next five months if I can.

The up side...my mom putting cold rags on my neck, my boys laying beside me on my bed and holding my hand, Ken telling me he loves me every second. When I have a moment of normal, I walk with my family. We went for lunch yesterday and laughed. We went to a wedding and swayed to music. We sit out on our porch regularly and smile at the Florida sunshine. Currently, while I write this, my father in law has the boys on an adventure. It is ironically Spring Break for us- a surreal one.

Until now, I have asked you all to not comment about me being brave, but I tell you, when I walk back into that cancer center on 3/22 to do this crap again, you have my permission to compliment me on my bravery. It will be very hard to do it again...and again, but I will. I believe the science even if it does involve bright red chemistry.