writing from the infusion room

I'm sitting in one of the cushy chaises of the Infusion Room a Go-Go. So far it's not so bad. Hot green tea from a thermos, feet up in a leather reclining chair, a poky but serviceable internet connection. Life is good. 'Course they haven't hooked me up yet.

True confessions first: It's 8:00 and already this morning I've made some significant emotional purchases. They should probably take away credit cards when you are having chemo. I bought some organic, unsulphured tart cherries, peaches, and nectarines online while eating breakfast, worried as I was that the world's supply of these delicious things might disappear while I'm not looking. The second, and HUGE purchase this morning I actually made from the infusion room. It's a vibration platform machine (it's an exercise machine, not, as Ellen suggested, a giant vibrator!), something I've investigated and wanted for a long time. I've been waiting for the go-ahead from the doctor (didn't want it to jiggle tumor islands into mobilization), and got her okay this morning. Within minutes I had placed the order. I am really excited about this. Come try it -- it ought to roll into Farmington in about 10 days.

Now it's 9:20 and Laura and I have spent the last 45 minutes talking to Beth, our nurse. At first I thought she was going to be too sweet -- she has a little elf voice, and that always scares me. But it turns out that I am happy to have her sweetness around me. Sweetness coupled with expertise and compassion is just what I need in my nurse. I'd love some funny, too, but I don't think that's her thing. We've been talking drugs, constipation, when to call. I'm disallowed from cutting my cuticles, have to treat papercuts with neosporin, and have to rinse my mouth with a special "recipe" several times a day. She's going to give me a mask for when Yani, T'ai, and I go to the Eddie Izzard concert next week. That's a good look at a concert, isn't it? And laughing through a mask, I don't know - it sort of encapsulates this whole thing.

We've decided to get a port before the next infusion, and taking control in this way feels good to both Laura and me. It will mean two more appointments with some Port-o-Doc, getting put close-to-under, but NOT burning out my lovely veins. Here is a shot of my sibs' and my lovely veins. I want to keep them. They are part of my family heritage.

Getting my third anti-nausea medication intravenously as I type. They front load you with that before they start with the adriamycin and then the cytoxan. Works for me. Odd side effect of the anti-nausea meds: may have trouble opening jaw and turning your head. As long as that doesn't get too uncomfortable, I think that could be an interesting side effect; kind of a Cary Grant stiffness and formality. I may add an accent to enhance this feature. "Lurra, dahling," I may say, not turning my head and barely moving my jaw, "DO be a dear and bring me the Times, would you?"

Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. That's all they talk about. So far I have peed 5 times this morning, and we haven't even started the infusion. I am considering buying stock in some company that offers tissues and toilet paper, both in gratitude (toilet paper is also one of those things that I often find myself thinking, "What if they stop making this great stuff?") and also in recognition of how much more I will be buying.

All the booklets say to empty your (well, my) bladder often, that this can reduce the chance of bladder bleeding. This reminds me of the time I emerged, deep in thought, from the bathroom one day. "You know," I said to Laura, "Sometimes I think I am literally anal retentive." She says, "You mean, the way you like things to be orderly and neat, like that?" "No, I mean literally anal retentive." "You mean how you like to have things your way?" "No. I mean I am literally anal retentive." "You mean how you always, like, need to be right?" "No!! I just mean that sometimes I hold in my poop! Jeez!"

At this writing, I'm sitting in the healing alcove back at home, and am feeling....okay. A little queasy, a little tired, a little overwhelmed with information and anti-nausea meds.

I meant it when I said before that I don't want anyone to feel obligated to read this blog. I'm having a surge of that feeling again, maybe because it is so helpful for me to write, and I both fear and hope that I'll be writing all kinds of whiny observations. Tomorrow I want to talk some more about the dos and don'ts they advise to help reduce various symptoms. If that makes you as queasy as I feel, do give yourself permission to blogavoid.

Before I end, let me honor the memory of Ruthie Cole-Chu, my bright, lovely, and spunky sister-in-law who died a year ago today of colon cancer. It feels like a heavy day, this January 7. I am trying to see my actions today as a move toward health and light. I already can see that keeping track of that perspective is going to be a challenge -- the walk Laura and I are about to take should help me find it again.

P.S. It did. All is well. Good night.