[Picking up where I left off on June 10th
with the “Dan, you have cancer: The Beginning”
blog.]
To continue with my story:
It felt great to be home from the hospital. Food was
better, sleep did not improve. I was still spending nights either in a recliner
or my TV room chair with the heating pad. I felt better mentally because Ann no
longer had to run back and forth to the hospital. I came home Friday January 11
knowing that Tuesday January 15th would be my first day of chemo.
I was looking forward to chemotherapy. “Hello Dan?
This is your common sense calling. Are you there? Have you lost your mind? No
one looks forward to chemo! Do not tell others or share this information as it
could be used as grounds to have you committed. Dan? Are you there?” This was
the battle raging inside me at that time. I had been told by people in the
medical profession, in fact people in the cancer medical profession, in fact
very smart doctors in the cancer medical profession that my life expectancy
could be measured in weeks or months. The way I weighed this news was that for
each day nothing was done to abate or cure the monster inside of me, was a day
that the monster was winning with no kickback from me. I wanted to, I needed to,
get into the fight. I was looking forward to chemotherapy.
Through my years on planet Earth I often wondered
just who I was. How tough was I. I never served in the military, so I did not
have that measuring stick. I was never in immediate life threatening
situations, so I did not have that measuring stick either. I was hit virtually
head on in my truck and was told by many that my actions that day probably
saved three lives. That accident happened so fast I’m not sure it is a
measuring stick either. The outcome that I controlled was more reflex reaction
than gut wrenching resolve. I did raise seven children and was the provider for
my family for forty plus years but I’m not sure that qualifies as a true test
as those challenges were spread out over those forty plus years. Maybe now I’ll
have a true measuring stick to figure out just who I am. What I am capable of. I am about to find out.
Everyone I ever knew who had chemotherapy hated it.
It made them nauseous. Tales of repetitive throwing-up were freely shared over
and over. I was facing that with tremendous trepidation because of my broken
ribs and fractured sternum. How was I going to handle barfing for long periods
of time when I already couldn’t stand to cough or sneeze? I needed to do
something no matter how painful, gut-wrenching or futile it may be. I had to
start fighting. I was already fully engaged on the prayer front. It was my
physical being that needed to join the fray. Remember, it’s not the size of the
dog in the fight that matters; it’s the size of the fight in the dog! This dog
was ready to tangle.
On Tuesday January 15th I reported for
Round One, Day One. My chemo sessions were to be scheduled every three weeks
for three consecutive days, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Tuesday consisted
of a bag of saline, a bag of anti-nausea medicine, a bag of steroids and two
bags of my very own special “cocktail” mix.
Sort of like McDonald’s special sauce and just as lethal. Wednesday’s
menu was the same only one bag of chemo, easy on the sauce please. Thursday was
a repeat of Wednesday’s fare. Monday’s time expenditure for me was eight plus
hours. Wednesday and Thursdays I was only there for about three and a half
hours.
Even something as simple of pumping your body full
of deadly chemicals, so deadly that the nurse giving them to me had to wear
gloves, a mask and a protective robe when handling them, could not transpire
without unforeseen events. Starting an I.V. on me has always been a challenge.
That is not a good thing for someone entering the chemotherapy protocol. When
you have cancer it means that you will be stuck with needles in more places
more often than ever thought imaginable. So Day One of chemo or day one of
chemo, depending on your outlook, is going great guns until my nurse has to
start an IV for me. I explained all the past difficulties I have had with the
process. I think I spooked her because after two tries she sent for help. The
IV nurse came and had the exact same problems as everyone else. Could not get
anything started. She couldn’t even find a viable vein. “Take that Dan!” cancer
screamed at me. Wait a second I need this all to work. Hand slaps, dangling
arms, tourniquets, hot compresses you name it the IV nurse tried it. Nothing
worked. I could feel her tension and frustration with the situation mount as
failure built upon failure. My dooms day clock kept ticking. My IV nurse got up
and took a walk.
Upon her return she sat down in front of me and taking my left arm gently into her hands, she breathed a deep sigh of not resignation nor determination but of... I cannot exactly say what it was. As I now look back and having gotten to know more about Nancy it wasn't a sigh but a prayer. It was her relinquishing control of the situation over to God. I said, “Stop. Nancy,
take my hands.” Looking at her I told her she was not to worry, she was not
hurting me. I was not angry at her. I knew she was doing her best. I let her
know that we were in this together. Now looking like the weight of the world
was lifted from her shoulders, she again took my arm and almost immediately
without further drama she found a vein, inserted an IV and had blood, my blood
flowing without further incident.
Once the IV was established and the drip, drip, drip
of the poison that was to stem the tide began its journey to the places it
needed to be inside of me. My nurse returned to discuss the immediate future of
IVs in my life. She suggested that I consider having a port. I have had port
wine, sailed from a port, know of several ports on my computer and loved the
Peaches ‘n Port at Momma Leone’s in Manhattan. But my own personal port?
Explain on. My nurse Jamie explained how it is a device that is implanted under
the skin of my chest and allows a quick access to my circulatory system without
the need for constant IV sticks for blood draws, chemicals or even some
medicines. My first reaction was to say no, I’m not having any unnecessary surgery’s.
I told her I’d think about. For the short term they decided to leave my IV in
for the rest of the week. That worked but was not a solution. After sleeping on
it and praying about it I agreed to have the surgery before my second round of
chemo.
Praise the Lord the chemo did not make me nauseous.
It didn’t make me feel like singing or going dancing either. The best way to
describe it to someone who has never gone through it is to imagine how you felt
when you had the flu really bad. No not like that, I mean really, really bad.
The ‘I can’t lift my head off the pillow, every joint and bone in my body hurts,
leave me alone to die’ feeling. Now double, no triple the depth and anguish of
that feeling. That’s how chemo felt. I will tell you though my mental approach
to it made it infinitely better. I decided it was not going to rule me. It was
there to help me. If this is what it takes to get better and beat cancer then
let me have it. It was during these days that my prayer warriors took on the
battle for me. I felt the effects of their payers every day. I did not choose to have cancer but I could
choose how I reacted to it. I decided to fight. EVERY DAY I FIGHT!
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