September was a hard month. It was the final month of my “consolidation chemo”… which, as I understand it, was a way to consolidate every possible negative side effect of my treatment and forcefully cram it up my ass for three straight weeks. My chemo took the shape of General Sherman as he scorched his way through my American South.
The total warfare tactic was designed as a final blow against my currently non-existent disease. South Cancerlina had surrendered months ago, but union doctors needed to burn it in order to make sure the war would not continue in the future.
Buoyancy has eluded me for months. I’ve been an object heavier than the medium in which I’ve been suspended. This has caused me to sink, has kept my head below the surface and left me suspended beneath the surface plane in which I felt secure enough to exist.
It’s been like this for months, which is why I’ve been quiet. It’s hard to communicate under water when you only have a few precious lungfuls of air that you think you’ll need to survive when you are under.
The current is changing, though. I’ve found a way to shed some of my mass or increase my volume, or whatever makes more sense for the density equation. We’ll say I gained some volume since my chubby travel season belly definitely hasn’t lost any mass.
I’m almost 30…that means I have SIX weddings to go to this summer and many of my friends are getting pregnant. The similarities between my condition and that of my preggo friends are pretty astounding. For instance, we both have foreign bodies growing inside of us, though I’m actively trying to destroy mine while they are incubating theirs for life. Here’s a list of more similarites between cancer and pregnancy:
Ever been stabbed in the chest with a safety pin between your ribs? I was three times today! It felt at good as it sounds. I still have the needle in, because I’m being pumped full of ass chemicals right now. I’ll be here for about four hours, but it’s way better than staying all night.
Oh the chest stabbing, that’s because I switched my horrible PICC line (remember that thing in my arm?) out for a chest port. It looks like this, but under my skin:
Looks like I’ll be stopping back into the the hospital for an injection every day this week, which is annoying. An oncologist was just in here, though, and he compared chemo to being in Vietnam War. The soldiers who were drafted that saw the war as an inconvenient and just put their time in were better able to adjust to post-war life than the people who totally took to the the war lifestyle. Basically he validated the fact that I’m getting annoyed with all of this.
So I’ll change the subject to my new hat! I swiped it from the front office in honor of both the disgrace of The Broncos and Syracuse. Go orange and blue!
I don’t want to get ahead of myself, because actually nothing happens until it happens, but I was told by the lead Oncologist today that they will be confident in releasing me from the hospital within a matter of days. All of my medical numerals are being reported with extreme gusto so the only things holding me here are a few administrative necessities. Basically I’m healthy enough to walk out the front door RIGHT NOW but I’ll need to stick around for a few days while we get the important discharge shit wiped up ( those last four words were chosen with absolute intention).
My how a difference a week and some blood levels make. I had my final in-patient IV chemo session last night (2/15/15), right before a super romantic Valentine’s Day celebration, and I feel totally fine today. The chemo was the normal stuff I’ve been getting for the last few weeks, but with some thoughtful little Valentine’s Day decorations to cuten up the death chemical applicators. RN Kaitin really made my night with those. She’s the best.
The drugs were the same, though my physical reaction was much less severe this week. I did not wake up in the throes of an existential panicmelt this morning, nor am I experiencing much of anything other than slight fatigue. All there is to report on is a whole bunch of bed sitting and Sunday relaxing…which I feel like I pretty god damned well deserve!
Despite the uneventful chemo session, there is a story in the circumstances because it was Valentine’s Day! Chemotherapy doesn’t exactly scream sexytime-romance to anybody… Well, actually, Official Rule of the Internet #36 states: “If somebody has thought of it, there is a fetish for it. No exceptions.” So there is at least one sexual deviant out there who is reading this while having a Daunorubicin Hydrochloride-lubed party in his bathing suit area…. Continue reading Chemo Sesh #5: The Cuter Valentine’s Day Post
Chemo session number four. Saturday, 2/7/15.
Same drugs, same style, same shit. An RN manually pumps some of Vigo the Carpathian’s pink slime from Ghostbusters Two directly into my heart.
My mouth adopts the taste of moldy bleach (I realize how little sense this makes) for an hour and my pee turns into peach cobbler. It’s the same every time, I know what to expect now, or so I thought…
Liana happened to be here to witness the chemo administration this time. I didn’t think she’d be terribly impressed by the process considering that she’s one of the most intellectually gifted people that I know. It’s nothing terribly stimulating to experience so she was forced to entertain herself by rolling her eyes at every bad joke I made to my RNs. Par for the course.
The process ends, everybody clears out and I go to bed at a decent hour in order to rest up for my mother’s arrival the next day. The end, right?
Shit is starting to get real with my treatment, unfortunately….
Today (1/31/2015) marks the beginning of my second round of chemo. Yes, this is the third Chemo Sesh, but there are three(ish) seshes within each round of chemo. Today’s genocidal drugs that inflated my veins like a mutant carnival balloon animal were the same compounds that first entered my bloodstream a week ago on day one. The first implementation of these drugs, as you may remember, resulted in a slight metallic taste in my mouth and some neon peach pee pees.
According to the lovely and brilliant Ashley RN, this is the dose of the chemo that I should start feeling….hence the artsy fartsy color corrected picture above! Expect some more nit, grit, snark and dark. Continue reading Chemo Sesh #3: Getting Gritty
Bet you never thought chemotherapy could be sexy, right? Well that’s why I’m here, to buttram your preconceived notions of all things Cancer. You can have fun, you can enjoy yourself, you can be sexy as fuck.
The peacock silk scarf appeals to those women out there who enjoy some flash and pizazz in a man- bright tail feathers to catch their attention. The messy unshowered greasy hair is for the bad boy trouble maker that they can’t help but loving, despite their best efforts to remove aloof danger from their lives. Bringing it all together is the come hither glance an slight lip pout. It’s a subtle expression, but more powerful than foot rubs and chocolate ice cream when played correctly.