Chemo Round One

So today is the big day. Round 1 of chemotherapy. I'm terrified. I hate the unknown. I hate being sick. I hate being nauseous and vomiting is incredibly traumatic for me. So not knowing what the side affects will be is killing me (not really, the cancer may be killing me, the unknown is just scary). Boris and I attended "chemo class," (yes, it's really called chemo class) to learn about the vast array of horrible things the chemo may do to my body. Nausea, vomiting, weight loss, weight gain (what!?), mouth sores, hair loss, change of taste, burning veins, the list goes on and on. Anne, who is going through this list is lovely, with long, luscious blond hair. Again...rude. Boris and I get A's. We've already researched all of this and Anne's impressed with how much we know. She asks if I want to see the treatment area. I don't. She thinks it's a good idea and begins to lead the way introducing Boris and me to the head nurses and staff as we walk. Everyone knows who I am. "Hi Sharon. I've been looking forward to meeting you," one nurse says. Another promises to take good care of me and my baby. Everyone knows my name before I'm introduced. I'm a cancer celebrity. Fancy. The only comment I make during the tour is that everyone receiving treatment has hair.

Boris and I arrive at Cedars at 730am. I have to get my pasport in before I go for chemo. The pasport as I understand it is a port that is surgically inserted into my upper right arm that has a tube that travels through my chest to a central vein called the superior vena cava. It allows me to avoid getting stuck with a needle a million times a week and should spare my veins and skin from getting burned by the chemo. The doctors will administer my chemo and draw my blood through the port. All of the doctors and nurses have reassured me that it's a very minor procedure that does not hurt at all. Although all of my doctors are at Cedars which has a centralized computer system, I have to fill out the same paperwork for the 9837930 time. The amount of time and paper wasted is criminal.

A nurse escorts Boris and me from one waiting room to the next. We wait some more. In the second waiting room, there's a colorful diagram explaining the port. It's something you might show to a child who you're trying not to scare. But I'm scared and start crying. This is really happening. We're moved into a surgery/examination room and wait some more. A nurse comes in to ask me the same questions about my health that I've been asked a million times. She too thinks I'm so healthy. Aside from cancer, of course. She has some new and odd questions for me, like do I wear my seat belt. That seems relevant to cancer. She also asks me if there's any abuse at home. I say no. Boris says yes. He smiles at me. "She abuses me." he says.

We wait for 2.5 hours. I'm going nuts. Finally, the surgeon comes to get me. Boris has to leave because the doctors will operate in a sterile room. I think the surgeon had failed dreams of stand up comedy and as he's preparing himself, the nurse and the room, he's spitting out jokes and trying to engage me in conversation that I'm really not interested in having. I just want to get this over with and surely he doesn't really care whether I'm a native Angelino or not. Interestingly, part of the sterilization process includes covering me up with lots of paper. It's bizarre and I feel like a loosely wrapped mummy. Like the other doctors I've spoken to, he promises that the only pain I'll feel is the lidocaine shot to numb my arm. I exhale deeply as he pricks me. A few seconds later he asks if I can feel him poking me. "Yup. I feel that," I say. "Really?" he responds. No asshole - I'm kidding. He gives me another shot. And another. And another. I am finally numb. But, I can hear the clicking of scissors and knives and think I might puke. He asks me to turn my head towards him and touch my chin to my shoulder. I do. Then I feel something snaking up my chest and neck and exclaim "gross!" Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Then I hear scissors snipping. I am beyond nauseous. I ask him when he'll be done and he says he's done. But he keeps snipping and clicking metal objects. I ask him again. And again. I probably ask him 5 times if he's finished. He keeps saying yes. "Then why are you still operating on me?" I ask. When he's actually done, he tells me that usually the procedure is performed under an x-ray to ensure proper placement, but since I'm pregnant, he did his best and before I can leave, I have to have a shielded x-ray to make sure everything's in place. "What if it's not?" I ask. "Then you get to see me again!" he chuckles. "I never want to see you again," I tell him, "unless you're taking the port out."

I'm supposed to start chemo in 5 minutes and haven't left the operating room at Cedars. The surgeon says he'll personally wheel me down to the emergency room where I'm to get x-rayed. I hop into the wheel chair which I don't understand why I'm in since I'm 100% ambulatory and we get Boris from the waiting room. "I can't believe how long that took." I say to Boris. He laughs and tells me that he didn't even make it through 5 songs on his ipod. Boris and I endure more jokes from the surgeon, but the x-ray reveals that the port is properly placed, so we leave and head to Tower oncology. My arm is throbbing. For something that's not supposed to hurt, it hurts. A lot.

I'm lead to a reclining chair in the treatment room of Tower oncology. We have a corner spot in the back of the room which I like because it's less hectic and chaotic. Anne hugs Boris and me and explains that she's going to start giving me fluids and anti-nausea medication. After 2 hours, I still haven't received any chemo. I can't believe how long everything takes. Boris and I decide to order lunch from Kate Mantellini which is directly across the street. I call to place my order. The only thing I want to eat is their white chicken chili. The waitress tells me that they don't make the chili to go because it's too hot. "What?" I ask. "It's too hot," she explains. "Someone got burned once, so now we won't prepare it to go." "Well can you let it cool off before you package it up?" I ask. "What if I draft a release?" She laughs and agrees to make an exception. But when Boris returns with our food, he tells me that the owner refused to allow the exception and wouldn't give us the chili. "Did you tell him that it's for your pregnant wife who is receiving chemo as you speak for stage III breast cancer?" I ask Boris. "Snuggler (my pet name), I'm not going to play the cancer card for food," he replies. I tell him that he should play the PREGNANT cancer card for fucking everything. I mean if I have to endure this, at least I should get everything else I want, like chili, right?

We eat and Anne comes to tell us that she's going to begin administering the first of the 3 chemo agents. She injects the syringe with bright red liquid in it into my port. She tells me not to be alarmed if my pee is red. She injects me with the second agent as she sits and chats with us. She's sassy and funny and tells me that although she wishes she were doing anything else to me right now, she's starting to cure me and that's a great thing. She reminds me that although I'm stage III, as far as we know the cancer hasn't metastasized. "CNO" she says. "Cancer, Nodes, No Mets." Fun new abbreviation.

As she starts to administer the final agent through my i.v., I realize that my head has started pounding and things look a little hazy. After 5 hours, we can finally go home. I can't wait to see Miles. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to play with him given my headache and vision, but I can't wait to see him nonetheless.

Before I leave, Anne reminds me to drink lots of fluid as that will help stave off nausea. She tells me to drink 3 liters a day, so I drink 5. 1 round down, 5 to go.