First Chemo Weekend

Today marks the end of my first chemo weekend. I will have all my future chemo treatments on Wednesday.

My first chemo treatment was surprisingly calm. I mean, once I learned that I should apply the lidocaine cream thickly and at least an hour in advance of them drawing blood from my port, it was quite calm. When I jumped, the phlebotomist asked, "Did that hurt?" "Just like a needle to the chest," I said. Next time, lidocaine cream thick and in advance! There is no "chemo 101" cheat sheet and I do find this inefficient, especially with the need to be ever-present while being engaged and as relaxed (?) as possible.

Dad and I left for Bozeman at 6:30 in the morning. The greatest "cancer bonus" has been quality time with loved ones. Our conversations are grounded and present. We ask whatever questions and honesty is the base. I just could not get through these days without family and friends.

One week ago, I told Mike that I just wanted to start chemo--end all the appointments and find a new rhythm. Start the attack. Note my symptoms, see patterns, and be able to adapt and adjust. Dad and I went for a walk before walking into the hospital. We prayed in the truck and then came into the hospital with Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" as the battle march.

For each chemo session, I am going to bring a battle patch from my friend and colleague, Matt, who is retired Air Force and served multiple deployments abroad. He was given this patch when he deployed to Kazakhstan. He explained that each person got a patch with each deployment so they knew who their team was, and I should have a patch, too.

Once the chemo IVs were hooked up and diligently dripping away, Dad and I started

a game of cribbage. He hasn't played in a while and picked it up quickly. It was a warm, soulful time with him and a nice distraction from the novelty of being fed chemo through my chest.

My chemo nurse, Jamie, was very educationally-oriented and was a calm presence. She has been a chemo-radiology nurse for 12 years and spoke about how much the chemo regimens and experiences have changed. It was comforting to learn that I should call my team for any symptoms--nausea, dizziness, hiccups, constipation, etc. etc. These symptoms did not need to be the default bus waiting ahead to run me over.

In the infusion clinic, the cancer patient has a quite comfy chair. It reclines back and fit my 6' frame. Dad had a less comfy chair. We sat in front of a wall of windows that looked over a parking lot and the Bridgers. My chemo treatment lasted seven hours. In that time, I had three 'neighbors' (separated by a curtain) plug in and check out: an older woman who loved knitting washcloths and has gifted hundreds (accompanied by her husband), an older man who snored, and another older man who was also by himself.

Mike came for the post-lunch shift. He brought a cribbage board but we just chatted. I feel really guilty beating loved ones, so I did not want to play. But, I also don't want to lose. My personal competitive evolution + chemo continues. Q, O, and T sent me a video message Wednesday morning wishing me luck and hoping I felt better. They seemed sad and I want so badly to protect them and be transparent. Jamie helped Mike and I make a video message to send back and show them what chemo looks like.

At chemo, there are these lovely volunteers who come around your chair (like Bill, who is a five-year survivor and partly retired chemistry professor who volunteers

each Wednesday) and ask if you need anything to eat or drink. Chocolate pudding seems like the ultimate childhood score--to have endless supplies. Alas, the clinic did not have pudding (apple sauce only) but they did have popsicles. Jamie hit record and Mike and I broke down the transfusion scene and shared we have all the free popsicles we could want (with grape popsicles in hand). Though, without pudding, we promised we were making a petition.

Dad and I checked into the hospital at 8:30 a.m. and hit the road back to Helena around 5:30 p.m.

Thursday, I felt overall very well. I worked half a day and felt energy (likely from the steroids and bevvy of supportive liquids in the chemo IV). I got a bit dizzy at work and my care team said it's likely due to nausea medication and to stay hydrated. I hiked a simple hike with two dear friends I needed to see and came home and received a shot that was attached to my right arm Wednesday (to avoid going back to Bozeman or into St. Peter's for a post-chemo white blood cell boosting shot).

Thursday, I chopped my hair to make the coming hair loss easier. I felt in control and positive. My hairdresser friend, Liz, said

she could have me back when it was time for the last cut, and my nephews and niece could even help with the shave. I don't want to go through this on my own, and I am grateful I can integrate my little people and help them (and me) through this change.

I don't know what to expect with chemo. I got briefed at 'chemo education' for the deluge of possibilities. Friday, I woke up with a sore throat and teleworked. I felt good until 11:00 a.m. I thought I'd take a one-hour nap and didn't wake up until almost 5:00 p.m.

Saturday, I was fatigued and had some sort of dizzy-blurred-vision hot flash. I felt better afterwards, but was just very tired. My temperature has been temperamental--clammy and cold and hot.

The rest of Saturday and Sunday were rough. Saturday night, I didn't sleep. I couldn't sleep. I thought about neuropathy and ran mental circles wondering if I'd asked enough questions to support my body as much as I can through chemo. I had other thoughts, but can't remember them. My abdomen has been pained from the egg harvest and I couldn't sleep comfortably. My bones ached and I had diarrhea. At 3:30 in the morning, I went and sat on the porch with the dogs. I felt the need to sit by the earth and just come back to myself as a home. I tried sleeping on the couch, tried sleeping on the bed, and felt ragged.

Mentally, I wasn't in a good space. I've been waiting for the attack of the chemo gremlins, but aches and fatigue are hard to make sense of when I usually associate these with endorphins and the freedom of movement. And I would normally pull myself out of a funk with movement, but I didn't have the energy for that. I called my mom and she spent the day with me. I haven't cried in likely too long, and I am so grateful for her. It was alarming to be so damn sad. We walked the one block to the park with the dogs and laid in the grass, looking at the clouds. The sun and blue sky helped.

Sunday, I ended up speaking with my fertility doctor and realized I definitely fell behind the pain and shouldn't hesitate to use the prescribed pain meds. After an oxycodone, I was able to take a two hour nap and rest. My abdomen is still tender and bloated but hopefully this will help me get off the pain train, have an appetite, and rest.