Wow, what a difference a little bitching makes!
Just returned home from my two day infusion at LGH and it was like a different world! After 5 hour, 5 1/2 hour then a 6 1/2 hour wait for chemotherapy the last three times, this time the staff had the juice dripping 2 hours and 20 minutes after I arrived. A totally acceptable amount of time considering all that has to happen.
I was pissed last time. Marcia was flabbergasted. My sister was here for the 6.5 hour wait and just couldn't understand the delay. So the Monday after that hospitalization, I visited the Infusion Center at the Health Campus. One of the head pharmacists, Ryan, sat with me for more than a hour explaining how this chemo system works, why it's mixed at an off-site location, how long it takes to mix, to have the drugs couriered to the hospital. Let's be clear, it's a slightly fucked up and convoluted system. But understanding all the parts of the system helps me.
They promised to try harder. I promised to keep my anger in check and thanked Ryan for taking the time to talk to me. Squeaky wheel gets the grease sometimes. We arrived to the hospital at 8 am, my pre-meds were dripping at 9:30 and the chemo started to drip at 10:40. Huge improvement over 4pm, huh?
So this latest hospital admission was a success. Marcia was my special guest. What would I do without her? She picked me up at my house at 7:30am and slept with me at the hospital all night and didn't leave till 1 this afternoon. She an angel on earth and I so enjoy her company. We talk non-stop, about everything. We should both have laryngitis by now. Plus having her sleep over was like being in college all over again. It was fun to have a roommate! Marcia's the best and I love her.
Another week down, lots more to go. But slow and steady wins the race and someday, someday I'll be cancer-free. Then you can spend your time reading the Onion.com rather than this drivel.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
It's Like Hershey Park Without Hilary
Good Numbers! Good Numbers! Good Numbers! It's a Christmas Miracle. My hCG dropped from 39 to 7.5 - what a blessing! All the prayers really paid off.
This is obviously good news. If the number went up again, we were in trouble. Talk of another PET scan, changing chemotherapy, even stopping chemo for a little bit to let the cancer grow so we can find out exactly where it is. As you can imagine, when I put my head on the pillow, all of those options race through my head. I have a uncanny ability to go from zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds. While I try to reign in, it difficult not to speculate what we would have to do if cancer took over any of the four major metastases sites; lung, brain, liver or kidney. Ugh.
I mention Hershey Park because this is like a total emotional roller coaster. My family, friends and I put all of our faith and hope in this number. When it goes down we are elated. When it goes up we collectively panic. Just up and down, and up and down. I feel a huge sigh of relief when there's good news. I feel like there's a rock on my chest when there is bad news. And I know a lot of you do too. It really is a roller coaster.
The only roller coasters I like to ride are with my sister-in-law Hilary for her birthday. One her favorite events is to take the whole family to Hershey Park and ride the roller coasters. Be clear, Noonie (her middle name and nickname) is not even five feet tall, and she can't see well, hear well or walk well. But she can ride a roller coaster like a champ! It's always so heartwarming to see her smile as she loads into the car. She often rides with her mouth wide open the whole time. I'm afraid she'll catch bugs. (But really my mouth is open the whole time too, because I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.) She rides next to her brothers or one of her nieces and nephews. I think a lot of people really enjoy roller coasters. Yet, in my mind, Hilary takes the cake.
While those Hershey Park roller coasters are a blast, this hCG roller coaster is a nightmare. It doesn't matter how tall you are or how loud you scream, I'm on the ride whether you like it or not. I just want to be done and get off. I really do. But I know I'm not really on this roller coaster alone. There are dozens of you riding this ride with me. Even Hilary is sitting in the car next to me. And instead of laughing like she does at Hershey Park, she sitting next to me on this roller coaster praying. She's a darn good prayer ... like so many of you. Eventually this cancer coaster will pull back into the station and we will all get off. We will all breathe a collective sigh of relief and say a prayer of thanksgiving. And finally Chris and I will get back to living life on our terms. In the meantime, I'm holding on with both hands and screaming at the top of my lungs.
This is obviously good news. If the number went up again, we were in trouble. Talk of another PET scan, changing chemotherapy, even stopping chemo for a little bit to let the cancer grow so we can find out exactly where it is. As you can imagine, when I put my head on the pillow, all of those options race through my head. I have a uncanny ability to go from zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds. While I try to reign in, it difficult not to speculate what we would have to do if cancer took over any of the four major metastases sites; lung, brain, liver or kidney. Ugh.
I mention Hershey Park because this is like a total emotional roller coaster. My family, friends and I put all of our faith and hope in this number. When it goes down we are elated. When it goes up we collectively panic. Just up and down, and up and down. I feel a huge sigh of relief when there's good news. I feel like there's a rock on my chest when there is bad news. And I know a lot of you do too. It really is a roller coaster.
The only roller coasters I like to ride are with my sister-in-law Hilary for her birthday. One her favorite events is to take the whole family to Hershey Park and ride the roller coasters. Be clear, Noonie (her middle name and nickname) is not even five feet tall, and she can't see well, hear well or walk well. But she can ride a roller coaster like a champ! It's always so heartwarming to see her smile as she loads into the car. She often rides with her mouth wide open the whole time. I'm afraid she'll catch bugs. (But really my mouth is open the whole time too, because I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.) She rides next to her brothers or one of her nieces and nephews. I think a lot of people really enjoy roller coasters. Yet, in my mind, Hilary takes the cake.
While those Hershey Park roller coasters are a blast, this hCG roller coaster is a nightmare. It doesn't matter how tall you are or how loud you scream, I'm on the ride whether you like it or not. I just want to be done and get off. I really do. But I know I'm not really on this roller coaster alone. There are dozens of you riding this ride with me. Even Hilary is sitting in the car next to me. And instead of laughing like she does at Hershey Park, she sitting next to me on this roller coaster praying. She's a darn good prayer ... like so many of you. Eventually this cancer coaster will pull back into the station and we will all get off. We will all breathe a collective sigh of relief and say a prayer of thanksgiving. And finally Chris and I will get back to living life on our terms. In the meantime, I'm holding on with both hands and screaming at the top of my lungs.
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