Infusion 16

My neutrophils had remained at 1,100! so it was definite: I was going to receive my final infusion. Number 16 (or number 15 if you consider that I skipped over unlucky 13). Regardless, I was in the infusion room a lot. 

Jason was with me for this one. It was our moment, the end of phase one, the most labor-intensive phase of this breast cancer treatment. We brought some pink gerber daisies in Mason jars decorated with gold ribbons, and I handed them to the receptionists and nurses.

I sat in the infusion chair, unfurled my bundle of blankets, received my Benadryl and other pre-meds and got hooked up to my final bag of the poisonous swill. I wasn’t sure how Jase and I would react to this infusion—I figured we might hug and cry when it was over. It had been five very long months. 148 days. But I promptly and unceremoniously passed out. 

After what felt like five minutes, I woke up to see a shriveled bag nearly emptied and Jason working on his laptop, fingers clicking on the keyboard.

“I slept through it???” I said.

After the nurse de-accessed my port, we were free to go. I was tired. Jason was exhausted. A couple of the nurses congratulated us before we trudged out the double doors. And that was it. Finished. Chemotherapy ended the same way it began—with little fanfare and a strong need to leave the infusion room.

People have asked what it feels like to get an infusion. It’s simple. Go to your grocery store. Find the bleach and grab a jug. A gallon or smaller-sized jug, it doesn’t really matter. 

Now chug it.

Infusion 15

My neutrophils had increased to 1,100, so I was able to receive a combo carbopatin/taxol treatment. Normally, the carbo/taxol is administered at the beginning of each cycle, but this was in the middle of cycle eight, my final cycle (landing the chemo plane means that treatments can be shuffled around). My oncologist also reduced the amount of carboplatin for a second time, so my dosage was much lower than the previously reduced amount. This was my final infusion of the terrible drug. Sayonara, carboplatin! 

Infusion 15 was special because it was two days before my birthday. Normally I don’t celebrate my birthday, but considering that you only live once (as if I need a reminder), I decided to give back. I ordered a very delicious cake from a very delicious place and invited all my friends who have been instrumental in making this cancer clusterfuck a little easier. I figured five people would show up in the middle of the day at a pretty awful venue, but there ended up being 14 of us. Thankfully, one of the private infusion rooms was available. Everyone got a hearty slice of cake, and I partied on Benadryl (See Benadryl Face below. And why is it that a bald head is so stark in photos? In case you didn't notice: HERE'S MY HEAD).

In addition to receiving some very beautiful and thoughtful gifts (friends, we need to talk; I was supposed to give back to YOU), I also had a private viewing of another naked boyfriend photo. Awesome!

I was nearing the end! One more infusion to go!

Happy 46th to me.

Wow.

There is nothing else to say.

(Except that we have a sexual predator and racist demagogue who questions our democratic process for President).

Jason forwarded me this which explains the cultural divide in our country. It helped. Perhaps it will help you, too.

There has been so much going on in the past five months since I've been lost in la-la faerie land: mass shootings, creepy clowns and now a new President who didn't win the popular election. One breast cancer survivor told me I'd lose and gain friends and family over my diagnosis. I've experienced some rough times in my life, so I thought I had it all figured out: Of course. I've been through this before. But it's always shocking when someone decides to behave badly.

Yesterday while I was driving through the hospital's parking garage, a man in his late 50's tried to walk in front of me. As I passed by, he yelled and swung his arms in the air and hollered that I was stupid. There was so much anger on his face. I don't like that sort of behavior but even more so after this election because, quite honestly, he looked and acted like a quintessential Trump supporter. Throughout my life, I've been blamed by older white men and I've been groped and now that I've gone through chemo, I have had enough. So while I was driving past his angry face, I rubbed my bald head, pointed at it and then flipped him off. It's cancer, so back off motherfucker! Now we both had behaved badly.

Nigel was in the back seat. "Whoa," he said. And then we howled with laughter at the man's stupidity and mine, too.

Hardship is a mirror. It reflects the true character of the surrounding people. And our family has been blessed to receive so much unconditional love and support.

For starters, we didn't cook for five months! Five months. June, July, August, September and October. At first, Nigel was really upset. He likes my cooking. For him, it's a deep connection to motherhood and love and a cozy home. But everyone cooked and baked with so much effort and care, that the transition was seamless.

So many people were dealing with major life issues and yet they still wanted to give. One recently single mom with four young children went out of her way to make us a casserole. She couldn't even make a double batch (one for us, one for her) because her kids don't like mixed foods.

Another mom calls her three kids "a bunch of little fuckers" because none of them like the same meals. However, she diligently made us weekly dinners in addition to all the specialized meals she had to cook for her lovable effers.

And then there's the creativity of the gifts received. One family traveled through Spain this summer--and lit a candle for me in every church they visited. Imagine all those little glowing candles in all those little churches.

I've received a necklace of healing stones, a heart-shaped rock found in Italy, snails (yes, snails!) and three special blankets each with their own story.

There have been care packages for me, care packages for Nigel and special outings with the guys for Jason. Not to mention all the playdates and overnighters for Nigel. There has been yard work and body work and planted ferns. Homemade perfumes, essential oils and every kind of protein powder imaginable. Loaner wigs and a gifted wig, two hats and a robe. A cashmere cape, one scarf and a pair of socks. And books! A ton of books. And gift certificates and a spa invitation and beautiful indoor plants. Also, the flowers... In the past six months, there has only been one week where our kitchen counter did not have a bouquet on it.

Not to mention all the kind words. Words hold so much power. All the loving texts and phone calls (I had to turn off my phone's ringer and haven't turned it on since--this is a good thing). All the emails, so many emails. And, of course, the cards.

There has been so many stop, rewind and do-overs. So many, Yes! Come over! And many more, Please, don't! And through it all, everyone has been so considerate and kind.

I've posted pictures of some of these tokens of love, partly as a reminder for myself but mostly to thank all of you. It shows how caring people truly are. Even though we might experience appalling behavior, creepy clowns, mass shootings and a President whose rhetoric eerily reminds historians of the budding Nazi movement, the majority of us are a considerate, loving bunch. It's deep within us, this core of humanity, this tender essence of who we are. What we hold seems so fragile, but it is rugged and strong. And yes, there are always exceptions, but for the most part, human beings are beautiful--and robust and tenacious and ready to claw into with bloodied hands those inalienable rights for ourselves and for others and never let go.

Do not give up hope.

Infusion 14

I entered the chemo clinic expecting to be declined after my blood draw. After all, my neutrophils were at 500 the previous week. But lo and behold! my numbers had shot up to 900! This was too low for a carbo/taxol infusion, but I was able to get a simple taxol treatment. And even better, my oncologist stated that I would leapfrog over unlucky 13 and move forward with infusion 14 (skipping one treatment was still within protocol). 

However, I had not expected to get infused. I had cancelled my drivers. But several waited for a possible emergency text--just in case. It went like this:

Holy shit! Getting infused! Come on over!!!

I wasn't prepared. I didn't wear my armor (handmade shirt, black cardigan, feather down ski vest, Adidas pants and Converse sneakers). I didn't bring my lucky blankets (very personal gifts from two friends). I didn't eat beforehand (it's a bad idea to get pumped full of hard-core drugs on an empty stomach). All I wore was a feminine handmade coat, dainty slip-on shoes and a loose-knit sweater that would hardly keep me warm. However, I did manage to bring a book, wear my necklace of healing stones from the Book Club Babes and slip on my wedding ring before I walked out the door. 

Our friends have been so patient and flexible throughout this entire ordeal. And while I waited for three of them to drop everything and come to my rescue, the nurse prepped me with my anti-nausea meds: one steroid tablet, Pepcid (yes, the heartburn relief drug) and Benadryl (used for possible allergic reactions to the chemo). 

Before breast cancer, I had never taken Benadryl. I heard some of my allergy-prone friends talk about it. They complained that it made them sleepy, but it was a sensation within a reasonable spectrum: they would get tired and yawn. I once gave it to Nigel when he was a baby. He still woke up many times during the night. Yes, he was lethargic, but it wasn't lights out.

It's interesting what happens when a nurse plunges a syringe of Benadryl into your port that goes straight to your heart... One minute, I'm talking and laughing. The next, my head falls forward because my neck has turned into jelly, my eyes droop and I become silent. 

I'm near the end of chemo. My oncologist says that we're landing the plane. The wheels are down, the flaps are up, but there's a lot of turbulence and the plane flies topsy-turvy. That's when things are tweaked to fit the patient's needs. In my case, skipping an infusion and reducing my dosage. In the middle of all this turbulence I can see the tarmac from high above and I'm so ready to be done.

I passed out for 45 minutes in the clinic before my girlfriends arrived. One handed me a magazine and stayed briefly before darting off to run errands. Another drove my car home while my third friend and I followed behind in her car. My eyes still drooped. My head lolled back and forth. And when I arrived home, I crawled into bed and took a two-hour nap.

It has taken so many people to fly and land this plane.