Another Day at the Office

After two weeks away from the girls on Floor Six, I'm back on my Taxol grind.

My regimen is three weeks on, one week off, giving my body time to recover its white blood cells before the next session. My red blood cells seem to be the ones struggling.

Between what was supposed to be a one-week break and another unexpected week in the hospital, I missed two sessions. I've been anxious to get back to treatment and see whether Taxol is keeping my disease from progressing. A sneak peek during my hospital stay revealed that nearly all my spinal lesions had grown, with one exception. Not exactly promising. 

But for some reason, scans no longer have quite the same hold over me that they once did. I find myself approaching them with a relatively unbothered mindset, ready to decipher and accept whatever results come my way.

My last PET scan did bring on some initial tears. I think I was more upset with myself for being caught off guard by the extent of the progression than I was with the progression itself.

Of course, there's still a heightened emotional undercurrent to all of this. I've known, and told myself, that this cancer is going to kill me since those first few weeks after diagnosis.

I've read nearly every book and article about cancer and dying that I could get my hands on, analyzing, annotating, and sharing along the way. I've spoken to packed rooms at my alma mater and at fundraisers supporting cancer research. Death is neither a distant nor an unfamiliar topic for me.

But there's a difference between understanding something intellectually and feeling it inch closer. When the metaphorical claws at your heels seem to be getting closer every few weeks rather than every few months, you realize that there's a difference between knowing something and having it begin to touch your own life.

Anyway, Enough of the dark philosophical musings for today. Back to chemo. Literally.

Getting to the cancer center took two hours and twenty minutes of traffic (shoutout to my little sis for driving), and the journey home was no better. Our Dunkin' wasn't hitting, either.

Disclaimer: This might hurt some feelings, but I'm not exactly one of Dunkin's biggest fans.

We needed a caffeine boost near the highway, so we settled on iced caramel cold brews and Wake-Up Wraps. Meanwhile, my pain medication was taking its sweet time kicking in. I squirmed around the passenger seat, mourning the heating pad I'd left at home, until all my medications decided to kick in at once. The squirming stopped, and, much to my sister's dismay, so did my constant complaints.

At the cancer center, I showed off my blue four-wheeler . I initially started using it this summer because of shortness of breath and debilitating back and leg pain. My face used to turn beet red with embarrassment. There were times when I felt like I was running away from the chair while the chair was chasing me (my sister had a habit of bringing it to events without telling me).

Today, I can laugh at that version of myself, who hadn't yet experienced my most recent pain crises.

We won't be taking any chances, Sarah.

A security guard swoops in and ushers Mia and me through a secret back entrance to the elevators, bypassing the line entirely. A VIP entrance? We aren't going to be late for bloodwork anymore. I smile and thank him. I'm still figuring out my relationship with the wheelchair, but hey, I must admit it comes with some perks.

My nurse practitioner appointment was routine, except for the weekly weigh-in. When the patient care assistant asked whether I'd like my weight converted into pounds, I immediately responded, "No, thank you!" The number stings a little less in kilograms, and something told me this week would burn. Cancer has changed my body in innumerable ways, including weight gain, but I have learned not to attach moral value to it. Today, I brushed the number off my shoulder and considered that a small victory.

I also brought up a pain patch. I can no longer trust myself to wake up in the middle of the night to take my long-acting medication, no matter how many alarms I set. The proposed patch would deliver medication continuously over 72 hours, helping prevent another pain crisis.

I left with a plan. Now comes the badgering phase: politely reminding everyone involved until the arrangements are made. Practitioners are busy people juggling countless patients. I have exactly one patient to prioritize: me. It might seem like a small or even annoying thing, but sometimes self-advocacy looks like sending that extra reminder. No one else can afford to put me first. That person needs to be me.

I remember more about my ten minutes in the waiting room than I do about chemotherapy. I received my premedications, fell asleep before they hooked me up to Taxol, and woke up after they'd disconnected me. 

Who knows if they even gave it to me? Unfortunately, my hair loss suggests otherwise.

I did wake up in time for my favorite part of the day: getting my Pleurovac drained.

Reclined in my chemo bay, feet up and left side exposed, I hold my sweater up as my chemotherapy nurse and another nurse work in tandem on my drain. There's an entire choreography to it: disconnecting, clamping, manipulating the tubing, emptying the collection chamber, checking the measurements, and reconnecting everything. My chemo nurse supervises from the sidelines, still learning the ins and outs of this particular art form. Pleurovac drains aren't exactly part of the everyday infusion-floor repertoire.

Mia packs up our belongings in the meantime, while I've been assigned the role of chief lung correspondent. I let the nurses know when that familiar twinge of pain tells me my lung has had enough.

The grand total? 400 mL. I expected more after Monday's 950 mL and Tuesday's 400 mL. My left lung still had a little something left to give, resembling either crisp golden apple juice or a refreshing APA beer. (This gives me many ideas. I wonder if I'll still be kicking around on April Fools' Day?)

Chemo Day Too Many, Cycle One of Four: Complete ✅

Some bar trivia and a fresh, crisp DC (Diet Coke) to celebrate.

P.S. If you'd told me yesterday, in the middle of my pain crisis, that I'd be sipping a Diet Coke at trivia tonight, I'd have told you to shut up and stop lying. 

Breath by breath. Day by day.