We arrived on time at Cherry Ward, RD&E Wonford. Upon checking in with the receptionist and paying 20 pence for my special chemo-treatment parking permit, Jack was sent off to display the permit on the car dashboard while I made a cup of tea at the self service counter and helped myself to the complimentary chocolate biscuits. Nervous munching.
A few minutes later, with a mouthful of chocolate crumbs, I heard the matron call my name. She showed us into the room where two other patients' treatments were in process - an old gentleman in a reclining chair for chemo, and an old lady lying in a bed having a blood transfusion. Before my seat was warm, the old gentleman had finished with his treatment. After the nurse removed his intravenous tube, he promptly stood up, walking stick in hand and marched out of the room. Wow! I told the matron that I’d like to finish my treatment today just like that old gentleman! The matron smiled. Very diplomatic, I thought. She took my "appointed" arm and examined for a "good vein". In fact, she had been eyeing both my arms for as long as we've met! She said I've got generally good veins and she's looking for the straightest stretch of the vein to stick the needle in, and it is very important that I KEEP STILL. (Uh oh! Might I be dealing with a matron with shaky hands here.)? I decided the safest thing to do at this moment was to look away. Jack sat up from his chair next to me and pulled him closer to have a better view of the process ... You would never have guessed - the "straightest stretch" of my vein is half way up my arm towards my elbow! Thank goodness - her first attempt was successful and I was spared the trauma of multiple pricks! I was surprised that the matron had used a yellow needle contrary to my understanding that the smallest one (pink/red to my understanding) will be used. When I tried to verify that, the matron explained that surgery ward staff always tell patients they have used the smallest needle on them just to ease the patient's anxiety ... and because the needle has to cater for emergency situations, all surgery patients are given the biggest red/pink needle as a precaution - which was what I had :0 (mental note for future hospitalization: Never trust what those hospital staff says again!)
After reconfirming who I am (to ensure that I haven't transformed into someone/something else between the waiting room and the treatment room), the matron and a staff nurse go through a dual-control procedure that made me laugh. OK. It is important to avoid giving the wrong medication to a patient, but isn't now a bit late for this? The matron said it isn't as she has only started flushing my vein with glucose and the second was a bag of anti-sickness. No medication has been administered as yet. (Hmmm .... "glucose"? Goodness! Aren't they supposed to sedate me rather than get me bouncing off the wall!?!)
The staff excused themselves for some reason and I jumped at the opportunity to say a little prayer with Jack. We committed the time to God and trust in Him that this is the process He has planned for me. And that we accept that if we cannot conceive in future, it is also His perfect plan for our marriage. We left our hopes at His feet.
1:00PM: The point of no return. Poor Jack had to put up with my crying when the matron plugged the Oxaliplatin to my intravenous tube. So, you see, I'm not that brave after all. So much went through my head (ouch!), I was hyperventilating! One thought was a death sentence scene from a movie (been watching Prison Break with Jack the night before). Not a good start ... I shall remember to reboot my mind to think of something else next time. But the main thought was around the possible damage to my ovaries :( As a healthy individual, I was sitting there helplessly waiting for this bagful of poison to flow inside me and cause havoc and destroy the very life form that constitutes to my well being now. I had this huge urge to pull the intravenous needle out of my arm. The thought was quickly quashed - you should have seen the way the matron had criss-crossed tape over the needle to ensure it stayed where it should! Darn!
For the past weeks, I had put aside all the bits that I was to take with me on my chemo treatment. Guess what? As we rushed out of the door, I totally forgot about the bag with my lemon-flavored ginger preserves (courtesy of my Hong Kong friends), my iPod (soft, soothing music was highly recommended but I think I'll stick to ACDC), etc. Useless. Just as I NEED them most HERE & NOW! Thank goodness Jack managed to find some Polo Mints at the hospital newsstand. I scoffed them up like I've never before to overcome a horrible taste of metal that came on so quickly in my mouth! Blah! Yurk! :(
As the Oxaliplatin has to be packed in an ice sleeve to stay cold, it is very cold when it entered my vein. The freeze seized the muscles of my entire arm :( A little electric blanket to offer a bit of relieve is wrapped around my scrawny arm. However, my arm was ceasing up all the way up my shoulder during the whole process that took more than two hours. Although there are no bruises from the process, my whole arm feels like it's taken a few hard punches even at this time :( (mental note for next treatment: offer other arm!)
And you must know what nervousness makes one do? Yeap. Go to the toilet. Picture me dragging this wheeler-pole with a big bag of drip along a corridor THREE times (that's a total of six trips)! The other patients must think I have a terribly weak bladder ... Brian was expressionless on my third trip. Not surprised.
Just after 4PM, the pump box on my wheeler-pole bleeped. That means the process has completed. Hooray! The matron came and replaced the tube with another bag of glucose to "flush" my vein again :) (Ha! This one is to boot me up like it did that old gentleman earlier!) She also took the opportunity to brief me on the bagful of boxes of tablets I am to take when I get home. I was too anxious to get out and nodded to everything she said and hoped that Brian was listening.
I felt fine so as we were walking through the hospital, I was saying to Jack perhaps we might take a drive to Budleigh Salterton beach for a stroll before we went home. The instant I stepped beyond the automatic doors of the hospital on to the road towards the car park, a gust of wind brought severe pins-and-needles sensation to my hands and face. While Jack continued to walk ahead of me, I had made a u-turn and walked straight back into the hospital and stood in a corner, crying in shock! It was nearly a whole minute before Jack came looking for me and found me. I huddled up to him and he held me tight and walked briskly towards our little car. The pins-and-needles just won't go away no matter how I rubbed my hands to warm them :( When we got home and I tried to open the door, I got "zapped" again. (mental note: gloves!!!) Soon, nausea set in and I was not much company the rest of the evening. Jack made mash from scratch and we had my favorite Birds Eye fish fingers with it. Swallowing was difficult and Jack sat with me for a long time after he had finished his meal, just to make sure I finished mine too.
8 o'clock is no longer a time I want to see on my clock anymore. This is the appointed hour, day and night, for taking my THREE ENORMOUS 500gm chemo tablets, The XELODA pill, Capecibabine, that MUST NOT be broken up to smaller pieces for easy consumption. The matron said it is important to take them whole within 30 minutes of having food :( (now why did I remember THAT part of her lengthy instructions?). There are two different types of anti-nausea tablets to confuse things further. It took me nearly twenty minutes to swallow all those tablets. Each one seemed to rock down my throat in the bumpiest way possible - much like trying to slide down a tunnel lined with crumpled newspapers! Like I said in my last email, I have to tilt my head back and stretch my throat to attempt to create a straighter path (like the giraffe at Longleat safari park!), and stroke my throat with one hand to ease the tablets down. I vaguely recall the matron also mentioned that the tablets must not be taken with some kind of fruit juice. Well, I can't remember if it was grapefruit or cranberry juice. To avoid disaster, I took the tablets with warm water. And right now, water tastes like custard gone bad :( (mental note: must find a safe place to store these poisonous tablets away from our usual meds in case Jack reaches out for the wrong thing in the middle of the night!)
My highly exaggerated sensitivity to cold means no ice-cream treats :( (And I had just stocked up on tubs of my favorite Haagen Dazs flavors the day before! Boo!)
Concentration - nowhere to be found. Could hardly read five sentences and my eyes start to blur. The connection from eye to brain (ouch!) seem to be disconnected ... It has taken me many attempts to write this email.
Hands and feet - thank goodness it is only the cold I am ultra sensitive to. Can't imagine having to miss my daily hot shower ... standing under a hot running shower has been the highlight of my days post surgery. I miss having a bubble bath. But I'm not about to risk it with my stoma. Jack treated me to a hand massage in the evening after my tablets. A tube of some form of cream came with my tablets and I'm supposed to apply it twice a day on my hands and feet to overcome possible flaking! :0 (at the time of sending this email, my hands have started to flake)
And speaking of stoma - for the first time, I'm grateful to have stoma. Diarrhea is a common side effect during chemo treatment. Imagine the number of loo trips I'll be making through the night and day if not for my stoma bag!
Sleep - The good thing about lying in the bedroom means I can hear the local church bells ringing last night (Thursday) :) Bless my fellow bell ringers, who must have put in extra effort to ring those melodious changes. All this sleeping in the day is causing me to be awake by 4AM :( We woke up this morning (Friday) wondering if we have a proper new government. No such luck. :0
