Penultimate
There is a New Nurse today, a shortish middle-aged woman wearing grey scrubs who does not seem to be happy dispensing chemo. I ask where Maggy, the regular nurse is, and the woman shrugs. “She didn’t like it here, it’s not very exciting. She transferred to surgery.”
Yes, surgery is undoubtedly more exciting. Maggy is young, recently married, and used to work in the emergency room of a major suburban hospital. I’m not surprised she’s gone but will miss her. I’ve known her quite a while, almost three years, I think, and she’s always been smiling and talkative. Her chattiness was a welcome distraction.
This is the penultimate chemo session. There’s one next week and, unless the doctor orders more, this should be it for a while. My surgeon will take a look in four or five weeks to see if I’m cancer-free and if I am, there will be three months before my next cystoscopy.
The lead-up to this session hasn’t been pleasant. I’ve been sad for the last couple of weeks, an irrational teary tristesse that has no real rhyme or reason. I’ve tried to identify its sources, and found a thousand causes, none of them offering relief.
The New Nurse takes my blood pressure. It’s astronomical. “High,” she says. I nod. Definitely high.
She asks, “First time?”
I shake my head. “Um, no. Forty-fifth. Maybe forty-sixth.”
She says, “Hm, that’s a lot.”
I agree.
She suits up. She dons gloves, a disposable paper gown, and a clear plastic visor. She is frowning and says, “I hate working with this stuff.”
I ask her why. She’s tucking her hair into one of those shower cap things. “Can’t get this stuff on you. It’s caustic to the skin.”
I tell her about earlier treatments I had that used BCG, a solution based on tubercular sheep cells.
“That stuff is even worse,” the New Nurse says. “When I first dispensed it, I had to wear a face mask along with all the other protective gear. You could do some serious harm breathing it in.”
I wonder at the wisdom of being pumped full of these chemicals. But then, I’ve learned chemotherapy is essentially hunting fruit flies with an elephant gun. The idea is to kill off the cancer cells still hiding after surgery, and make potential colonists realize this is not a good place to set up housekeeping. The downside is that a lot of healthy cells perish too.
She injects me with the required dosage of mytomycin. Normally it burns but today it’s painless. I frown, and the New Nurse asks, “Are you okay?”
I tell her I’m used to this stuff burning like hellfire and she smiles for the first time. “Hey,” she says, “I’m good. I’ve been doing this for years. Half of your discomfort comes from how smoothly the mytomycin is delivered.”
I didn’t know that.
“You’re probably going to get the standard after-effects later today, but hopefully they won’t be too bad.”
This is good news and, it turns out, it’s true. By two o’clock all I feel is a vague warmth and lethargy. No nausea, headache or dizziness.
Hallelujah.
One more treatment next week and with luck, I’ll be done.
Yes, surgery is undoubtedly more exciting. Maggy is young, recently married, and used to work in the emergency room of a major suburban hospital. I’m not surprised she’s gone but will miss her. I’ve known her quite a while, almost three years, I think, and she’s always been smiling and talkative. Her chattiness was a welcome distraction.
This is the penultimate chemo session. There’s one next week and, unless the doctor orders more, this should be it for a while. My surgeon will take a look in four or five weeks to see if I’m cancer-free and if I am, there will be three months before my next cystoscopy.
The lead-up to this session hasn’t been pleasant. I’ve been sad for the last couple of weeks, an irrational teary tristesse that has no real rhyme or reason. I’ve tried to identify its sources, and found a thousand causes, none of them offering relief.
The New Nurse takes my blood pressure. It’s astronomical. “High,” she says. I nod. Definitely high.
She asks, “First time?”
I shake my head. “Um, no. Forty-fifth. Maybe forty-sixth.”
She says, “Hm, that’s a lot.”
I agree.
She suits up. She dons gloves, a disposable paper gown, and a clear plastic visor. She is frowning and says, “I hate working with this stuff.”
I ask her why. She’s tucking her hair into one of those shower cap things. “Can’t get this stuff on you. It’s caustic to the skin.”
I tell her about earlier treatments I had that used BCG, a solution based on tubercular sheep cells.
“That stuff is even worse,” the New Nurse says. “When I first dispensed it, I had to wear a face mask along with all the other protective gear. You could do some serious harm breathing it in.”
I wonder at the wisdom of being pumped full of these chemicals. But then, I’ve learned chemotherapy is essentially hunting fruit flies with an elephant gun. The idea is to kill off the cancer cells still hiding after surgery, and make potential colonists realize this is not a good place to set up housekeeping. The downside is that a lot of healthy cells perish too.
She injects me with the required dosage of mytomycin. Normally it burns but today it’s painless. I frown, and the New Nurse asks, “Are you okay?”
I tell her I’m used to this stuff burning like hellfire and she smiles for the first time. “Hey,” she says, “I’m good. I’ve been doing this for years. Half of your discomfort comes from how smoothly the mytomycin is delivered.”
I didn’t know that.
“You’re probably going to get the standard after-effects later today, but hopefully they won’t be too bad.”
This is good news and, it turns out, it’s true. By two o’clock all I feel is a vague warmth and lethargy. No nausea, headache or dizziness.
Hallelujah.
One more treatment next week and with luck, I’ll be done.
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