I'D RATHER BE WATERBOARDED

It's been 5 days since I had my first Chemo infusion. It has not been pretty. Mostly I'm exhausted. I'm really too tired to be typing this. I'm taking long breaks between each sentence for some water and a pep talk from my coach. Then back into the ring, 3 words, Gatorade, rest. 

I have many side effects. But, I shall spare you the long list and cut to the gross bits. Blatant sensationalism I know, but a gal's got to lure her audience in somehow. And, since there is absolutely zero sex happening now, I'm going for blood, violence and pain. 

Eew factor numero uno:

I have blisters in and around my nose. All over. My nose is a dot-to-dot abscess puzzle. Connect them all and you'll have a cankerous, white-headed Miro. If I have to blow my nose, it gets Tarantino bloody. Chemo literally punches you in the face. 

Eew de 2 (Coming soon to a perfume counter near you.) 

My entire neck and chest area is covered in a throbbing, itchy, red rash. It works much as America does. The areas that are blue are calm. But the red spots are unbelievably irritating and menacing. And, they won't go away. I've tried appeasing them by buttering them up with soothing lotion and promising it'll get better this time around. But they don't believe me. They're swollen, angry, demanding all my attention and insisting the other 47% of my body should not share the cream. It's a hard itch to scratch. 

Eew 3 

This one's really for Adam Sandler fans. POOP. If you're not laughing hysterically and making fart noises with your armpit, this Blog has ended for you. Thanks for reading. For the rest of you, and my nephew, I shall continue. I had not pooped in 5 days. Yesterday was my first one. And it was a tiny, pathetic, Cadbury's Whisper of a poop. No, Dr Freud, I am not holding onto my poop like gold. I've long since gotten over those issues. I would simply love a relaxing, free-flowing, zero-pushing guano. Isn't that what everyone wants? 

I'm tiring fast. It's time for a quick nap before my Neulasta (medicine to stimulate healthy, white blood cells and fight infection) starts drilling at my bones with a pneumatic jackhammer. Can't wait to see what next week brings. 

CHEMO IS NO PICNIC.

I had my first day of Chemo yesterday. I don't know why I expected it to be a walk in the park. I think that I had read up so much that I had myself scheduled for IT to hit on day 3 and gradually reduce by day 10, then I would be fine until the next infusion. I even packed a frikkin picnic basket for the day. Such was the extent of my delusion. I was there from 8.30am and last to leave at 6pm. Halfway through the first lot of Chemo drugs I developed an allergic reaction. Watering, sore, red eyes and elevated heart rate. They had to stop the Chemo, give me antihistamines and even more steroids, wait until I was ok and continue on. I developed a chalk-like taste in my mouth and was not hungry in the slightest. My husband and mom throughly enjoyed the picnic lunch. Once home I went straight to sleep and have felt nauseous, crappy and exhausted ever since. On a better day I'll describe the big social scene Thursdays at the Chemo ward are and how loudly Southern families like to talk about their pie and dogs. But not today. Today Chemo is the clear winner. 

EXIT THROUGH THE PINK RIBBON GIFT STORE

Yesterday my mother and I went on a tour of the Cancer Ward. Our guide was a nurse, dressed in the appropriate nurse tour-guide outfit: scrubs. I must say as far as tours go, I've had worse. She politely pointed out all the major attractions and points of interest. "This is the pharmacy." Aaah yes, never would have guessed had it not been for the big sign across the window that says PHARMACY. "This is the waiting room." Take a picture Mum. "Would you like a glass of water?" Hear that Mum? We get a free glass of water. Only gripe is the plastic glass does not have any pink ribbon promotional branding and thus cannot be used as a gift. 

Then the fun part of the tour ended. We were ushered into a small room for Chemo 101. Basically Chemo 101 is an hour-long, 4D, interactive experience that will scare the shit out of you. You're given page after page, brochure after brochure of really, really, asteroid is hitting in 10 minutes bad news. Firstly she tells you which Chemo drugs you're getting. I'm getting a lovely cocktail of Taxotere and Cytoxan with some Neulasta as garnish because they can't stick a cocktail umbrella into your Chemo port. Nurse Psychopath then explains all the side effects. I will lose my hair, be fatigued, have nausea and vomiting, poor appetite and/or weight gain. I may have swelling, mouth sores, constipation, diarrhea, black poop, red wee, nail fallout, anemia, Chemo fog, infection, bleeding, pain and blood clots. I am to avoid crowded places, spicy food and my weekly pedicure. But you know what I won't have...Cancer. 

Shell-shocked we're taken to the main part of the tour. The actual Chemo ward. "This is where the magic happens" smiles Nurse Gladitsnotme. Okay she didn't really say that, but you could tell she's been dying to. She points out The Chair by Lazy Boy. The IV Pole by Big Medical Business, The Visitor Chair by Chemo Rooms To Go and the Fluffy Sock by unknown artist. Fascinating. 

Our tour ends with Nurse Sunshine bidding us farewell. "Comeback soon y'all." Yes we'll be back. Thursday to be precise. But only because our camera phone dies and we really, truly want a shot of The Fluffy Sock.