Five

(January 2008) Chemotherapy is not something you generally look forward to going through. From everything I had heard about it, I was anticipating nausea, loss of appetite and various other unpleasantries. Hair loss wasn’t a big worry for me since most of it had left on its own. But here I was, having leukemia but feeling fine and facing a treatment with the assumption the cure would be worse than the disease.

The doctor and nurses were not really much help on the lowering anxiety front. While telling me most patients tolerate it well and relating the anecdote of a surgeon who flies in from Florida, has his chemo and flies home to a full schedule of surgeries, they resorted to their standard answer; “every patient is different.”

Cheryl came with me for the first day of treatment, walking into the waiting room of the infusion center with more than a little trepidation. I much prefer calling it a clinic. Infusion Center sounds so--cancerous. I may be willing to face up to the fact I’ve got leukemia, but can’t they do some things to at least make it seem like just a normal disease once in a while. On the other hand, infusion is their gig.

They called my name and took us into a tiny room with a bed, a chair and a blood pressure gauge. A chemotherapy cubicle. And there we waited. The pharmacy didn’t have my orders, so what was supposed to be an eight hour day doing nothing turned into a twelve hour ordeal doing nothing.

When they finally came in with the IV bag and sank a catheter in my hand, I watched the fluid drip down the tube, into the regulator and followed the first drop through the tube and into the back of my hand. Here we go. Whatever it’s going to do, it’s starting to do it.

Throughout the day, there were lots of blood pressure and temperature checks, blood draws and the occasional new IV bag. Some medicine, some saline solution. We got home about eight o’clock that night. I felt fine—kept wondering if I’d be getting sick but had no problem. The next day I asked if this is what it would be like for the next six months and got the answer I expected, “sometimes people don’t have any reaction to the first treatment or maybe the first couple of them. Some people don’t have any reaction at all. But every patient is …” Yeah, yeah, I got it.

The second and third days went smoothly, and I was done in about four hours each day. I was in the lounge chairs on those days, doing crossword puzzles and reading most of the time. I left, called Cheryl and went in to work for the rest of the day. On the fourth day, I just dropped by to get a shot of Neulasta which is supposed to boost my immune system by convincing my bone marrow to kick in and make new healthy cells. About three the next morning, I woke up throwing up. By noon the next day I was okay, though because I didn’t dare eat anything until evening, I didn’t know I was okay.

And that was it. I went back every Monday for a blood test. Two weeks after the chemo, my lab results were e-mailed and I walked over to Cheryl’s office right away. My white cell count was 117 when I started treatments. Now, two weeks after the first cycle, it was down to 9. That’s in the normal range. I was almost in tears.

Chemotherapy is scheduled every four weeks for six months, and already my white cells are coming up normal, and I’m none the worse for the wear. I’m thinking chemotherapy is getting a bad rap.