Fighting Breast Cancer

I come home from the hospital feeling physically and emotionally exhausted.  Michael greets me at the door.  He looks like he’s had a tough day handling the mortgage business, too.  He sees my bandaged arm and demands, “What’s that?”

“It’s a picc line catheter.  It’s going to make getting chemo less painful because they won’t have to stick me with an IV needle.  Here, come look at it, I’ll show you how it works.”

“No!  I can’t look at it!  Please cover it up!  I don’t want to see it!!”

I didn’t expect that reaction.  I know that it’s gross, but it’s not that gross.  I think he was disturbed because he felt like they were slowly turning me into the Bionic Woman without the superhuman speed and strength. 

Karen has a hospital room prepared for me.  I put on a gown and lay in the bed.  My mom is there and she sits in a chair next to my bed with a somber look on her face.  To cheer her up I turn on MTV’s My Super Sweet Sixteen and start making fun of all the ungrateful brats.  (Seriously, have you ever watched this show?  If they were my kids, I’d make them work in a soup kitchen a couple of times a week.)

Finally, Karen came in and began the process of creating a surgical environment.  She sterlized my right arm and used a miniature ultrasound to find a vein that she could tap into.  At last, she found one towards the inside of my arm at the base of my bicep.  Next, she numbed my arm with some local anesthetic. 

Finally, using the ultrasound to guide her, Karen began the process of trying to thread a tube with a wire in it into the vein in my arm.  The wire acts as a way to help guide the tube through the vein to the center of the chest once it is inserted.  Karen was having trouble, though.  Every time she pierced my arm with the needle, my vein would collapse and hide.  She was about to give up and have me get a port, when she finally got it.  She was able to feed the tube through my vein to my chest.  She then removed the wire and bandaged my arm.

I sat up and examined the addition to my arm.  There tucked beneath the bandages, I could see a tube coiled around itself.  At the end of the tube was a splitter that sectioned the tube into two seperate ends.  The ends were capped off; one with a red cap, the other with a white.  This is now where I would have all of my blood draws and infusions.

Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete left yesterday, and now it is time to get back to my reality.  Today I have my fourth round of chemo to contend with. 

I sit down in my chair.  Bob, the man who comforted me during my first chemo, is just finishing up his chemo session and is getting ready to leave.  We smile and acknowledge each other, but he is too weak to do more than exchange pleasantries. 

The chemo nurse comes and begins preparing my arm for an IV, however she has trouble finding a vein.  She calls another nurse over to give it a shot, but she has no luck either.  This is starting to get painful. 

Finally, they bring in the Big Gun.  They call over a nurse whose name is also Karen.  She gives it the old college try, but not even she can find a vein.   She releases the turnicate with exasperation and tells me I need a picc line or a port.

I have been dreading making this decision for so long, and now I have to.  I would like a port, but if I do that, it will most likely delay my chemo by a week, and I definitely don’t want to do that.  Karen can install a picc line right now and my chemo will only be delayed for one day.

I choose the picc line catheter. 

I’ll say one good thing about chemotherapy:  You don’t have to shave.  Not even your bikini area.

Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete are staying at a resort/hotel called The Phoenician.  Aunt Denise booked an appointment for me to get a Reflexology foot massage.  While waiting for the appointment, we relaxed in their beautiful suite.  Michael and I stepped out onto the balcony and I took my head cover off.  I rubbed my head and the little hairs started flying off my head.  I bowed my head and Michael wordlessly reached over and started vigorously rubbing my scalp.  The tiny hairs got caught in the breeze and flew around before fluttering to the ground below.  Michael kept rubbing.  He was strong (for once); I know this must have been very difficult for him.

When I lifted my head again, I was completely bald.  Completely.

On the bright side, I have a husband who could care less and loves me with or without hair.  He offered to shave his head “in solidarity,” but I don’t want to look like two cancer patients walking around.  One is bad enough.  What would people say?

“Oh look!  How adorable!  They must have met in the chemotherapy infusion room!”

I told Michael I would sincerely appreciate it if he kept his hair.

Today, Michael’s Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete flew into town from Atlanta for a visit.  We met them for dinner at The Old Town Tortilla Factory, a favorite restaurant of ours (they have The BEST Margaritas!!).  Aunt Denise gave me a gift bag filled with some of the best gifts that I could use as a cancer patient, namely The Chillow.  The Chillow is a pillow that through some kind of voodoo magic stays very cool.  You simply fill it with water, squeeze all of the air out of it, wrap it in a pillowcase and you can say “Good Night!” to hot flashes and night sweats.  I wish they made a Chillow mattress.

She also gave me some bonnets to wear when I sleep.  These are very useful because even though the little hair that I have left is only a half inch long right now, it’s still falling out very rapidly and I have been waking each day with little hairs all over the sheets.  The bonnets, though very “Little House on the Prairie“, keep me from shedding all over the place. 

Lastly, there was a hat and the most beautiful bracelet that was made by Aunt Denise.  I am very lucky to have such kind and loving people in my life.