9:00 A.M. The offices are open and very, very busy. In the waiting room, I can see relief on almost everyone’s face, the same relief I’m feeling. Most of New England is currently caught in the grip of a superstorm, with single-digit temperatures, lots of snow, and flooding that has already turned several coastal towns into icy rivers. I’m not glad to be here but I’m grateful. Cancer, and cancer treatment, cannot wait.
9:30-ish A.M. My weight has gone up: that’s depressing but understandable. Sugar is the only flavor that registers on my tongue; foods that don’t contain a fair amount of it taste like nothing. Or plastic. Or a weird coppery metal. The nurse reminds me not to worry about my weight during this process, though, and I’m taking that under cautious advisement.
My blood pressure has also gone up: that’s genuinely worrisome. Two different nurses check me three times, using both arms, then the senior-most one makes a note in my chart. I’ve become one of those patients who needs rechecking after a doctor’s appointment. But I cannot worry about that, either. Other people with more knowledge are on it, they’ll tell me if and when it becomes a problem, and act accordingly. A third nurse draws my blood without incident. The port works as it should – that’s one more check mark in the positive/sausage column. Believe me, I’m keeping score.
11:00-ish A.M. The oncologist does her usual poke-and-thump sort of physical exam and proceeds to ask her questions. She looks delighted when I explain how the nausea medications worked so well, and her explanation gives me a second wave of relief. Apparently the first round of chemo sets the bar for nausea, constipation, vomiting, and all other debilitating gastrointestinal distress. I’ll still feel them but statistically, it’s unlikely that these symptoms will worsen for me, as long as I stick to the dosing schedule. The grin on her face, and the happy amazement on Steve’s face, confirms the delight that I feel. This is more sausage-y good news.
The neuropathy, on the other hand, is probably going to be my particular challenge. It’s rare for someone to feel those symptoms during the first treatment; typically it sets in around the fourth. I’ve got to take Claritin before treatment now and for several days afterwards, while the Taxol and the Neulasta are flooding my body. I’ve also got to work more B vitamins into my diet: neuropathy is a sign that I could be running low. Most importantly, I’m supposed to call the doctors with any news at all, no matter what, no matter when. The tingling and numbness can become permanent, affecting the motor skills in my hands, my feet, and my lower legs. Message received. The silver lining of manageable nausea has been pushed, firmly, back into perspective.
11:45-ish A.M. I’m reclined in the cozy pink chair, feet up, listening to the whir of the I.V. pump. I’ve already got four medicines in my bloodstream that cause drowsiness, and the treatment will now add several more. I’m reaching, waiting, for that urge to fall asleep. I have the prior experience now, telling me that the next several days will be hard, and that the post-infusion drugs waiting for me at home will cause insomnia and the jitters. That knowledges weighs heavily when you can watch the medicine drip, drip, drip into that tube attached to your body and you just sit there, when every animal instinct is telling you to stop it because it’s bad for you.
I’m also scared of the possibility that neuropathy will get worse and stay that way. The deeply relaxing sleep during the next six hours feels like an added bonus medication – a way for me to turn off my brain while pint after pint of toxic chemicals pour into my body while I lie there passively. As soon as I feel the tell-tale wash of relaxation spreading over my legs and my arms, I pull my woolly hat down over my eyes and lean into it. I’m here, it’s happening, I must accept – but I don’t have to dwell on it.
Sometime during the P.M. Two nutritionists show up and do their best to quiz me on my diet. I remember them being there and being helpful, but damned if I remember much of what they said. The reiki practitioner shows up, does her marvelous thing, and I don’t remember if I thanked her or not. Steve brings me food and gently touches my cheek to let me know he’s been there.
4:00 P.M. The last two bags of medicine and saline are nearly empty. There are empty food packages on my table; sometimes during the afternoon Steve brought me a sandwich and a chocolate brioche and I gobbled them down. It’s very weird to realize I’ve been talking, eating, and even getting up to use the lavatory with little to no memory of those events. Maybe there’s something extra in this chemo cocktail that wipes memory on purpose.
The nurse untethers me from the I.V., bandages the port, and tapes the Neulasta device to the back of my left arm. She and Steve stand there, waiting with me, until it releases its little needle. The sensation – like being snapped by a rubber band – reminds me of people who use that feeling to interrupt OCD behaviors and/or bad habits. It’s become my own wakeup signal: another infusion is over. The aftermath has begun.
5:30 P.M. We’re home. Keiko has given me her usual baleful stare for going outside when she’s not allowed the same privilege. If I could somehow explain where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, perhaps she’d react the way Dash does. He gives me a thorough sniffing, picking up on who knows what artificial and unfamiliar scents, and winds himself around my ankles to replace them. I scrub my hands, wrists, and forearms and peel off said clothes to put them directly into the washing machine. I check the Neulasta in the mirror: it isn’t leaking and the little green light flashes to let me know it’s still in proper working order.
7:30 P.M. Steve proposed ordering delivery, and encouraged me to pick the restaurant. My tongue is telling me I want half a dozen red velvet cupcakes, but I pick something slightly healthier: a pizza with plenty of meat and veg. I’m feeling the effects of the steroids: I recognize the peculiar mix of fatigue, restlessness, and approaching insomnia. This is the point at which nearly sleeping the day away turns into a detriment, but the night ahead is easier to bear knowing I’ll have the weekend to get back into rhythm. I’m still in it. I just have to bear it and find ways to get through.
10:30 P.M. I’ve posted, messaged, texted, and/or emailed everyone who wanted to be told I survived. I’ve fed the cats and taken the trash and recycling to the curb. Now it’s time to lie down with Steve and let said cats settle in: they won’t come to bed until I do, and we all need reminding that there can be normalcy after such a day as this one.
The night has started, and tomorrow is on its way, and I don’t know what they will entail. But now, in this moment, I can be grateful for the parts of this day that helped make it easier. I choose to do that. It’s an active thing, a sausage thing. I choose to listen to the wind in the tree outside our bedroom window, to the cats murring and Steve’s nocturnal mumblings, and for that moment, I’m content.
medicinal sausage 