Liz's colonic journey

Posts tagged ‘Chemo experience’

The weekend

I was quiet over the weekend – at least online. I think I was a bit taken aback to learn that chemo hurts. At least it seems to hurt me. Happily the nausea of Friday seems to have mostly passed. The part that surprised me was these sharp pains in my side, under my ribs, and my midriff area. They feel like the stitch you get from running and breathing too hard, so I thought my pains might have been from gas build-up or something. The sister at the oncology treatment centre said it was probably the cancer lesions objecting to being killed off. I can live with that. I’m metaphorically jumping up and down with glee every time I experience an objection.

I have been trying to avoid taking extra tablets. What with the Eltroxin for hypothyroidism, the whatsit-statin for cholesterol and the hrt for menopause, I already feel like a walking rattle. I got to talk to my mum in Oz, which really worked for me. The time difference means that the time to Skype is in the middle of the morning flurry of activity, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since the port was inserted.

Sioux and Paulette popped in on Saturday along with half of Woolworths. They reminded me of the PaperHeaDs policy – ‘take the pill’ – rather than suffering.

I’m a wimp about pain. Harrison’s Hypothesis – tested with PaperHeaDs, walking friends, family and numerous others, remains almost a law for me. Women who have experienced childbirth have totally ridiculous ideas of what a pain threshold is. I think some kind of chemical brainwashing occurs at the point of production. The rider to H’s H is that men and women who haven’t done childbirth are more reliable indicators of what might actually constitute pain/discomfort. So my walking friends know that I whinge about the slightest hotspot or muscle ache, whilst they carry on without noticing their own discomfort. It’s remarkable.

This is a long way around trying to say – don’t worry about any pain I might report – because it’s my way of noting that something’s happening – and as Jeremy says in Terry Pratchett’s “Thief of Time”, “I have medicine”.

Sioux and Paulette also put our brand new food processor together. Pat and I bought it last week, and it’s sat in the box all week. I was amused to see Paulette taking the lead on this, with advisory support from Sioux on what widget fitted what thingamijig and for what purpose. They know stuff these two. I also found it amusing that, as with Pat and I, the instructions were only consulted as a last resort and involved some scrabbling for spectacles in order to identify widget A and gadget B. (Or is a gadget a conglomeration of widgets – the collective noun for thingamijigs, whatsits, gizmos etc?) I so enjoyed that giggle.

The painkiller I took knocked me out after that until 3pm. Then Karen R called to find out if she could visit. Great to see her, and to chat while she and Pat enjoyed a well-deserved G and T. As previously mentioned alcohol is not talking to me at all. Another change is that I’m really not tempted by all the ‘wrong foods’. Lettuce now smells delicious as do any fresh fruit and veggies.  I apologise to lettuce for all my denigrating remarks about it just being a plate filler.

It was this conversation about food and what to do with the now assembled food processor that caused Karen to return on Sunday morning with trays of vegetable seedlings, a juicer she said was spare, a pile of recipe books and a stack of comedy DVDs. She proceeded to get Pat to make a carrot and cucumber juice, which tasted delicious – and almost miraculously perked me up. Pat was delighted at the ease of the process, and the fact that the pulp left over from the juicing will go onto the compost heap. No mess no fuss. It also looked like fun.

This is all grand, because apparently the trick is to get food that tumours don’t like e.g. carrots and beetroot and asparagus into the system. Juices seem to have the required roughage etc and move through the colon as quickly as possible, not lingering and encouraging the naughty cells to misbehave. Certainly I can report that things are moving well. We’d welcome any juice recipes (the Courtyard’s Carrot and Ginger juice springs to mind, if any of you have that one).

Everyone is feeding us. When Pat picked up her new pc from Godfrey, she returned with 4 fresh eggs from his fowls. Such abundance. The new Liz is finding it hard to understand old Liz’s diet – of a big protein and 3 veg meal at night with sandwiches in between. It hasn’t been a hard switch to make from that to fresh greens and fruits mostly raw. Let’s face it shop bread tastes like polystyrene! The only downer is not being able to go into the fridge, and Pat having to run around anticipating need. She’s also becoming an expert on pool care.

Another laugh of the weekend – was finally resolving the float/sink debate – thanks to Karen in LA and her access to an authoritative guide on the subject. In order not to offend sensibilities, I think I’ll not post the details of this resolution. For those of you wishing to know I’m happy to via email.

Now time to phone the insurance broker and set up an appointment, and get the timetable for appointments and activities organised. We had a hoepoe in the garden this morning. The last time that happened we were still in Caversham Glen 2006. I think it’s a sign. Lekker dag everyone.


Chemo: the first day

I call this picture Still Life with Chemo Paraphernalia:

Pat took this photo this morning – so excuse the pjs. The black blobs that seem to be wound around Rocky’s head are a little cooler bag, a scarf and a pair of mittens. The cooler bag also contained a bright orange fridge magnet which reads “Beware: Cold Front Ahead”. Next to that is a teddy bear with Sharks scarf, and in front are lip balm, hand cream and a massage lotion. The meds are anti-nausea pills for three days after I’ve finished this round of chemo, there’s another batch of anti-nausea pills for while I’m actually processing the stuff. Then there’s all the very well written literature on how the chemo drugs work and how to manage them – not in medspeak. I’m holding up the ‘chemo bubble takeaway”. My LA Starbucks coffee mug signifies that I’m still allowed to drink coffee. As you can see there’s a lot to explain.

My blood pressure was a bit high, when we arrived at the treatment centre, natural tension said the excellent staff: Kulsoom, Tamsin and Aniesha. They checked that the port was working – basically that blood comes back and mixes with the liquid. That hurt because it involved the needle being stuck through the wound from the surgery, and the saline flush burned. After that there was just the background ache of the surgery bruises.

 They sat me in a leather Lazy Boy, one of 20 in the room, (just like the ones that Cedric and Joan have – must really get one!) except mine had the remote control doofy for raising my legs and sending the backrest back. Intensely comfortable. They warned us that it was a 6 to 6 and a half hour procedure. I sent Pat off to Godfrey before they hung the first anti-nausea muti unit on the stand. Her computer hard drive crashed this morning and work is backing up and she’s getting seriously tense. Godfrey still has the pc which I think has died. He’s trying to recover 15 years’ worth of files of it. Do not say the b*ckup word.

 I chatted a little bit with the other denizens of the room, and eyed the coffee machine, but didn’t move. I wasn’t sure that I was allowed to do that. I pretty much switched on my ipod shuffle – and listened to Val McDermid’s “A Distant Echo” – until I couldn’t stand her torture of the characters another minute. Excellent thriller but I didn’t feel like being thrilled. I was napping in between (apparently the chemo makes you feel tired as you are going along – but this was just the anti-nausea (2 units) and anti-neuropathy (1 unit)). They only started the Oxy – wotsit muti at about 11:30. I napped some more listening to Katherine Neville’s “The Eight” which is about the French Revolution and chess. I now know that I need to take a blanket because I definitely felt cold when the muti started dripping.

 What we hadn’t considered was the need for food. I’d shoved a jungle oats bar into my bag as a kind of afterthought, but that wasn’t enough to keep the hunger pangs at bay. When I started contemplating mugging Mr Naidoo (9th cycle of the same treatment) for his cheese roll, I realised I needed to send Pat an SOS.  As she got on it, the Discovery Medical Aid ladies arrived and presented me with the cutest teddy-bear, which I surreptitiously cuddled for the rest of the day. Amazing how comforting it was. Another fellow there was starting today and he just shoved his bear aside. I wondered if he didn’t feel like cuddling it – or whether he wasn’t ‘allowed to’. 

Necessity must, and I discovered I was allowed to move around when my bladder started saying, “Howzit?”.  That trip to the bathroom, wheeling my stand, led me past the coffee machine – heaven. (The sister who connected my port told me to stay away from anything alternative labelled ‘antioxidants’ – which thankfully means saying goodbye to green tea. I’ve been doing the green laxative tea – which frankly is quite foul. I’m not an aniseed/liquorice fan. She said coffee is fine. I’m taking her at her word – with joy.) This antioxidant thing is a mystery to me still, I’m reluctant to look up anything to do with it on the ‘net. Yesterday I heard on one hand,  that tumours love oxygen – that’s why they make blood vessels to steal the nutrients and what not from the rest of the body. On the other, stay away from anti-oxidants that don’t come from normal food. The rules seem to be: stay away from fats, dairy, refined foods and large doses of sugar.

 I was napping when Pat arrived with a lovely whole wheat cheese, tomato, cucumber and lettuce roll from Bread Ahead. I wolfed half of it down, before noting that Pat looked like she was about to mug me. We shared the rest. 

It all wrapped up at 3.30, when Kulsoom connected the take-home bubble to my port and presented me with the previously mentioned goodie bag. Apparently the chemo causes an extreme pain reaction when skin comes into contact with frigid air. One guy told us he’d been ‘frozen’ for 5 minutes of agony.  It’s going to be hard to remember that – I’m usually the food preparer, but I can’t go there anymore. Poor Pat – her whole life is being turned upside down. I’ve got to train myself to not automatically go to the fridge to take out fruit, milk, nibbles without thinking and to remember to ask Pat to take things out ahead of time – so that it’s at room temp when I need it. I find myself snacking at all hours of the night – usually fruit – to Pepper’s disgust. I suspect this might be a problem when it gets hot and fruit flies reign. I wonder if that’s what the mittens are for? I’m a bit scared to try it out after the story.

For me it was quite restful to lie there imagining the Oxy-muti zapping the naughty cells, followed by the Avastin zipping in and nipping off the greedy blood vessels that these tumours initiate for themselves. I exercised my best classroom management skills, explaining to them that such subversive behaviour was not acceptable and has caused the society of my body to reject them.  I felt quite gleeful. The staff stayed energetic and happy throughout the day but you could see that they were becoming really tired at the end. Constantly checking reactions, blood pressure, joking with people, soothing others and giving advice must be exhausting. I thought students were hard, but maybe we, educators, should be thinking that what they are doing is kind of a life/death exercise? Not so immediate possibly. 

I asked Aniesha how she could do this job day in and day out with such lightness. She said it’s a calling and personal experience adds empathy to her medical understanding of cancer. There are certain people who can do it, and some that can’t.

Pat was shattered – she still had to come home sans pc and collect Rocky, and think through dinner and anticipate needs for the next 18 or so hours.

Meantime I was delighted to be home and having a bowel movement that looked real without any pain. That’s probably TMI, but I’m feeling triumphant.  Pat had to hear the full dimensions and character thereof – count yourselves lucky. The issue of whether floating or sinking is more desirable remains a mystery.

The bubble thing on the lanyard around my neck is really not awkward except when Pepper gets curious.  I did take the anti-nausea pill at about 10 last night, and it seems to have sent me off to sleep very nicely. I had one of Paulette’s bananas (is that a contradiction in terms?) at 3am. The flow of chemo is presenting me with a mathematical challenge. The label says that it contains 60 mls and has a flow rate of 2mls per hour. Which I calculated would take 30 hours to complete. It was started at 3.30 yesterday and when I got up at 5.20 had already finished running. Supposing it had just finished running that would be about 15 hours – so the flow rate was actually 4mls per hour, right?  I’m to go in  at 1pm to get the refill – should take half an hour. I’m going to try and convince Pat to let me drive myself. I’m missing driving Squashy.   

Meantime here’s a shot of the Cape Whiteye baby that was learning to fly in the garden on Monday. Pat managed to take this pic – so fragile at only about 3cm tall, and surrounded by dangers of cats, dogs, predatory thrushes etc, yet with a strength of life instinct that is indomitable.