The Red Devil

This past Monday was my third time receiving chemotherapy.  I began early last month and I go every other Monday to get the drugs.  I will need to receive eight doses of chemo before they put me through another radioactive scan and see if I'm free and clear of lymphoma.  That should be around the end of May.  I'm just over a fourth of the way through this strange experience.

On Chemo Mondays, I start my day by getting blood drawn, so that my oncologist can check my numbers before sending me off to the Infusion Room.  So far, over the last five weeks since beginning treatment, I've managed to keep my numbers pretty stable, aside from my white blood cell count, which is always expected to plummet when a patient receives chemotherapy.  ALL <----seriously, ALL my swelling has gone down in my chest and my itching and night sweats have completely subsided.  I'm sleeping at night again!  The relief from the lymphoma symptoms far outweighs any negative symptoms I've experienced from the chemo.  My adorable doctor always giggles with joy at the end of my appointment and gives me a big hug.  I imagine she is just delighted to have a patient who isn't an old, crotchety mess.   

After meeting with Dr. Jeffreys, I head to the infusion chair.  First I get a bunch of anti-nausea meds dripped into me, and then I receive four different chemo drugs through my PICC line, one by one.  The first drug I get is called Doxorubicin, commonly referred to as the Red Devil.  A nurse administers it by hand through a giant syringe.  The stuff is bright, blazing red, so you can really feel at peace about it going into your veins.  Every few squeezes, the nurse pauses to check for blood return in the syringe, to make sure the drug is going into the vein, rather than the tissue.  If the Red Devil gets into your tissue, it will rip you to shreds.

This past week, I happened to have the pleasure of being waited on by a nurse who seemed to have been borrowed from another hospital.  She was quite awkward and rather tactless and when my dear aunt, who was joining me for the first time on a chemo date, asked about the logistics of the Red Devil distribution, Nurse Beth told a very comforting story about how this drug once burned a hole through the linoleum when a nurse dropped it at her last job.  Insert blushing, wide-eyed emoji here.

Nurse Beth was also concerned that I understand the gravity of having a low white blood cell count.  Her advice to me was as follows:

1) Don't leave the house.  2) Don't let people into your house.  3) If you do let people into your house, tell them to wash their hands before you even say hello to them. 4) Never go to the grocery store.  5) Don't eat any fresh fruits or vegetables: "Think about it," she said. "Those things grow in the ground...with dirt!" 6) If you have to eat a piece of fresh fruit, make sure it has a peel on it, and make someone else peel it for you.  7) You're better off eating cooked fruits and veggies.  Her example: "You can eat a cherry pie, but don't eat fresh cherries."  8) Don't touch any plants.  9) Stay away from fresh flowers.  10) Go ahead and die of nature deprivation. 

 I loved Nurse Beth. 

The whole Chemo Monday process takes around 5.5 hours.  When I get up from the chair, I feel super hungover, like I need fizzy water and large pizza, STAT.  I go home and take some vitamins and a long nap.  By the next day, I'm basically back to normal, aside from having a weird, sour, cottony feeling in my mouth.  I still have a lot of energy, and have been taking advantage of the mild weather by going on daily runs by the lake.  I am reluctant to give up my raw veggies and outer-worldly adventures, but I try to remember what Nurse Beth told me, despite feeling perfectly fine.