Rhetorical Question
It is surreal, yet totally expected, to be starting chemotherapy again for my beast of a cancer. I have likened my battle with cancer to a street fight more than once. If you are familiar with street fighting, very rarely does your opponent stay down the first time you beat their ass to the ground. Even if you are clearly the stronger one often they gather themselves and stagger back to their feet for a second round. To be honest, I am annoyed by the fact that my advisory has risen back to its feet and I am required to pound it back down to the gutter...again. Really? Who has time for this? Well, regardless of the time factor, I am required to fight again, so fight I must.
My sissy was not coming for another 10 days, but we decide that we can handle chemo once between my husband, daughter and besties. My husband was going out of town for training on my infusion day, but my daughter was off of work and she stepped right up into my corner and said she would handle it. We were all up early, and my husband kissed and hugged me goodbye assuring me he was accessible by cell 24/7 and could come back if things got ugly. My daughter and I assured him that we had it "all out of control" as we like to say. I dress comfortably and pack up a bag of goodies; snacks, magazines, I-pad, smart phones (with chargers). I had called the Cancer Center the day before and talked to Alta (yes, Alta is still there!) and she told me to plan on 4 hours for my infusion, so we felt well equipped as we cruised the familiar route to the CC of KS. We entered the waiting area and although Eunice was no longer in the receptionist the new gal knows me, my history and has obvious empathy reflected in her eyes. We dutifully sit. It's morning, we are both just "this side" of grumpy and we are at the CCK...awesome. After a few minutes pass the nurse’s aide comes for me and immediately recognizes me. She congratulates me on my 3 years of remission and welcomes me to my "touch up" like I am at a beauty salon or something. My daughter and I laugh. "Pick any chair you want." she says after I weigh in and we peruse the room full of comfy recliners that are, for the most part, empty right now. We decide on an "end" chair near the kitchen and across from another mother/daughter team. This other "mom" had been at it longer than me, because no hair graced her beautiful scalp. She was beautiful as was her daughter. We all chatted as they took my vital signs and brought me a warm blanket. She had stage 4 lung cancer and was being treated by cisplatin too, however, her labs were "out of wack" and they were going to have to withhold today's treatment. She was waiting for instructions on what to do next and I seemed to just be waiting. Finally, they dismissed her and we shook hands warmly as we wished each other luck. My daughter looked at me and snickered "Mom, you're doomed!" "What?" I asked. "They said you might not lose your hair. Did you see her head?" I couldn't help but laugh in reply.
Finally, Alta came to talk to me. The cliff notes of what she told me is that that given my history with nausea and vomiting that they were going to alter my treatment and we should plan on being there for 8 hours each time. Holy crap! Really? Well, we agree to it, because we are trapped like rats and she begins the process of hooking me up. My power port is accessed in record time and then the day begins. We spend most of it watching people come and go. The chairs fill over time and then empty of their tenant and I remain "connected' and infusing. A few highlights stand out during the day. My daughter going out to get us lunch, an unexpected visit from one of our local news sports casters (she volunteers for Victory in the Valley) and the visit from my bestie. We were on Royal baby news coverage on each of the 4 televisions that graced the CC walls. All of them a different channel. There was chatter amongst the patients about what they should name the little guy. Toward the end of our long day almost all the chairs were empty and I was certain to be the last to go. As the last gentleman, 2 chairs down, leaves the aide snatches the remote control from his chair as she cleans his area. She tosses it at me as she saunters by. My daughter and I look at each other in shock...we had no idea that patients were in control of the televisions! I immediately change the channel at the urging of my daughter just in time to catch Ellen dancing up the aisle. Alta comes and unhooks my cisplatin and prepares my take home pump of 5FU and attaches it to me instructing me on the use of my pump and then asks if we have any questions. We say no, gather up all our stuff and all the things we had collected over the last eight hours, one of which is a biohazard clean up kit in case we have a chemo spill at home (what the hell?). When we are leaving I think up a question, and I all but laugh out loud...this is one is of a rhetorical nature..."Why does a man always have the remote?"
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July 30, 2013 at 9:18AM PDT by Private User
