Today (1/31/2015) marks the beginning of my second round of chemo. Yes, this is the third Chemo Sesh, but there are three(ish) seshes within each round of chemo. Today’s genocidal drugs that inflated my veins like a mutant carnival balloon animal were the same compounds that first entered my bloodstream a week ago on day one. The first implementation of these drugs, as you may remember, resulted in a slight metallic taste in my mouth and some neon peach pee pees.
According to the lovely and brilliant Ashley RN, this is the dose of the chemo that I should start feeling….hence the artsy fartsy color corrected picture above! Expect some more nit, grit, snark and dark.
I explained these drugs in the vaguest of details possible last time, because I was new and fresh in the unit and truly didn’t care. The idea of receiving chemo was oddly exciting to me, so I went in with a devil-may-shit attitude. I paid a little closer attention tonight and took some more time to ask questions and peep the process. Also, I was wearing several scarves and made RN Ashley listen to Phish the whole time because I want everybody in this oncology unit to RESPECT (or insert your own adjective here) me!!
As you see in the above left photo, poor Phish hating Ashley (“so uh… do they ever sing?”) had to sit next to me for 20 minutes while she manually injected an unearthly pink goo directly into my heart via my PICC (article pending). Notice how she is wearing an impervious hazmat suit to protect her from the radioactive death chemicals in her hands, yet I’m just sittin’ out there like I’m getting a tan and holding that shit up to my eyes, nose, and mouth. My left arm looks like I’ve been living on the corner of Colfax and Logan for the last 7 years selling my teeth and orifices of increasingly deteriorating usefulness for fixes of smack. I suppose that will only get worse before it get’s better… but at least this white middle class ex-farm boy will finally look like he has some street cred, right? RIGHT?
:flips womens’ scarves over shoulder:
This is the session that is supposed to hurt me. I’ve been told to expect to start feeling the fatigue, the malaise, the rectal crudbutt and general gunkery that accompanies the suicide pact that you force your blood cells to sign. As for now, I feel normal except for the weird chemical taste in my mouth. I’m pretty sure the only way I can fix it is with frosted flakes… thankfully my friends in the blood cancer unit went on a pirate raid down to bone marrow and stole all of the mini-boxes they could from their kitchen. There will never be enough said about having too many friends.
The first lesson I will teach to my children when they are old enough to learn is: “you don’t get four free boxes of frosted flakes if you’re a jerk with a bad attitude.” Then I will take a big sip of scotch and fall asleep on the couch at 5pm with my mouth completely agape. I’m really looking forward to fatherhood, now that I think about it. Glad I froze those lil’guys.