Chemowise, today has been the same as yesterday: the "E" (Etoposide) and "A"(ARA-C or cytarbine) of R-BEAM. When I get the Etoposide I say in a pirate voice, "Arrrg, meet me e-top o' side, immediately." I felt queasy last night and this morning for a while but the zofran antinausea drug kicked-in. Otherwise, I felt decent today. In the back of my mind I am dreading the coming storm of sickness I have heard about. My body has held up amazingly well so far, so I'm hoping that the stories I've heard don't come true for me.
The doctor told me that my immune system is about 50% effective right now. My immune system is like a sacrafical lamb that will die with whatever cancer is left, but my immune system will be raised back to life again with the infusion of my stemcells on Friday.
I get nervous when the chemo is hooked-up to the catheter that is connected to my heart. Some kind of nervious tension and anxiety creeps-in and it is hard for me to relax. I usually don't know when the chemo is coming, but the first indicator is the arrival of the chemo nurse on the floor that I am on. The chemo nurse pushes a small cart with sometimes squeaky wheels and then the Pavlov Effect kicks into full-gear and I get a butterflies and the early signs of nausea in my stomach. So, as an unthinking reflex to the nervousness I made some comment to her and those within earshot along the lines of, "ah! Here comes the cart of pain." I later reflected on how she may have felt being the one whose job it was to deliver these IV bags of suffering to cancer patients. So, to make up for the insensitive comment I exclaimed when she wheeled her cart into my room, "Yes! Here comes the one bearing lifesaving medications!" I don't know if she noticed, but it helps me to tell myself the positive truth about the things like sugery, nausea, fatigue, IV poles I have to drag around, tasty hospital food, my heart catheter, hospital smells, long car rides to Detroit, spending hours in waiting rooms, being woke up several times in the middle of the night, sticky hospital tape that never seems to leave the skin, and a dozen uncomfortable things a cancer survivor and those dear to them must endure. These things suck AND I depend on all of that for survival AND both are true. So, I am trying to take the wisdom a friend gave me that it matters what story I am telling myself about all of this. I have found that it helps me to focus more lifesaving story when I am tempted to frown at the companion always at my side... no, not Katie, my IV pole.
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2 comments:
It is so good of you to think of the medical staff's feelings, especially considering what you are going through.
Your attitude is AWESOME. You were like this before the Big "C", so I know that your upbeat personality will help you through.
Go, Brian, go!!!
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