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.