The First Infusion
The first immunotherapy session was anticlimactic.
Two days before, I had been tested for Covid, an unpleasant and exceptionally long 30 seconds during which a hazmat-suited nurse twirled Q-tips into my nostrils. This was my third test and I have not gotten used to the procedure. A day before that, I’d given up a half-pint of blood to be analyzed. I arrived at the clinic early, prepared for a bad time as my earlier experiences with BCG chemo were, towards the end of the treatment, downright unpleasant.
The nurse, a young Hispanic woman, was solicitous. We talked about side-effects and I told her I was particularly concerned with ear and nose hair loss. It’s difficult, when wearing masks, to read another person’s expression. I know I was smiling, but her eyes remained blank. She nodded and assured me that hair loss-anywhere-was rare with this particular medicine. I was likely to be fatigued and experience some gastro-intestinal issues and maybe experience some joint pain. If I became nauseous or short of breath, I was to contact the clinic immediately.
I sat in the medical version of a Barcalounger. Next to me was a lady with snow-white hair who glanced at my tee shirt and asked, “What’s Cancer Can Rock?” I told her it was an organization that gave musicians with cancer the opportunity to record a song for posterity in a professional studio, and have it mixed by a Grammy-winning producer. She thought about it for a minute and nodded her head, said, “My great-grandson plays guitar.” Then she returned to her crossword puzzle.
The nurse took some blood, sent it to the lab and twenty minutes later told me my calcium level was low. I remembered being told dried figs were good for that and promised to buy some on the way home. She hooked me up to an IV, sticking a needle in the crook of my left arm, then told me to wait. The pharmacy would be mixing the chemicals to be infused and it might take a short while. She handed me a print-out on Pembrolizumab (who comes up with these names?) and I read once again about the potential difficulties with the drug.
When my dosage arrived, she ran some saline to make sure the tube going into my arm was clean and clear, then connected the plastic bag of Pembrolizumab. Minutes later, I felt a small rush of heat go through my body, as if my temperature had risen. This went away after a few minutes.
I sat in the Barcalounger close to an hour, drank a couple of cups of coffee, played a word game on my phone, read emails, and sent messages. Then I dozed off.
When it was done, we made an appointment for three weeks hence. On the way home I bought figs and tried to determine if any part of me felt different. I tugged at a nose hair and it stayed in place.
So far, so good.
Two days before, I had been tested for Covid, an unpleasant and exceptionally long 30 seconds during which a hazmat-suited nurse twirled Q-tips into my nostrils. This was my third test and I have not gotten used to the procedure. A day before that, I’d given up a half-pint of blood to be analyzed. I arrived at the clinic early, prepared for a bad time as my earlier experiences with BCG chemo were, towards the end of the treatment, downright unpleasant.
The nurse, a young Hispanic woman, was solicitous. We talked about side-effects and I told her I was particularly concerned with ear and nose hair loss. It’s difficult, when wearing masks, to read another person’s expression. I know I was smiling, but her eyes remained blank. She nodded and assured me that hair loss-anywhere-was rare with this particular medicine. I was likely to be fatigued and experience some gastro-intestinal issues and maybe experience some joint pain. If I became nauseous or short of breath, I was to contact the clinic immediately.
I sat in the medical version of a Barcalounger. Next to me was a lady with snow-white hair who glanced at my tee shirt and asked, “What’s Cancer Can Rock?” I told her it was an organization that gave musicians with cancer the opportunity to record a song for posterity in a professional studio, and have it mixed by a Grammy-winning producer. She thought about it for a minute and nodded her head, said, “My great-grandson plays guitar.” Then she returned to her crossword puzzle.
The nurse took some blood, sent it to the lab and twenty minutes later told me my calcium level was low. I remembered being told dried figs were good for that and promised to buy some on the way home. She hooked me up to an IV, sticking a needle in the crook of my left arm, then told me to wait. The pharmacy would be mixing the chemicals to be infused and it might take a short while. She handed me a print-out on Pembrolizumab (who comes up with these names?) and I read once again about the potential difficulties with the drug.
When my dosage arrived, she ran some saline to make sure the tube going into my arm was clean and clear, then connected the plastic bag of Pembrolizumab. Minutes later, I felt a small rush of heat go through my body, as if my temperature had risen. This went away after a few minutes.
I sat in the Barcalounger close to an hour, drank a couple of cups of coffee, played a word game on my phone, read emails, and sent messages. Then I dozed off.
When it was done, we made an appointment for three weeks hence. On the way home I bought figs and tried to determine if any part of me felt different. I tugged at a nose hair and it stayed in place.
So far, so good.
No comments have been added yet.
