Showing posts with label End of Treatment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label End of Treatment. Show all posts

Sunday, October 1, 2017

All Done

So where are we? 

I’m occupying that strange land that lies at the end of treatment and  before we take the pretty pictures that tell us how effective that treatment was. Scans won’t happen for another two months but rather than feeling overwhelmed by anxiety, I  feel pretty calm. Not to sound like a seasoned veteran but I’ve done this before. Rituxan worked before. I have no reason to believe it won’t work again. And if it doesn’t, well, we’ll address that when we get there. So until then…some comments and observations about this round of treatment.

Treatment Not Chemo
First go round, I did Rituxan and Bendamustine. The latter (Bendamustine) is a nasty toxic little chemical substance, thus it is definitely chemotherapy. Rituxan, on the other hand, is a monoclonal antibody — so a type of immuno, not chemo, therapy. This go round? No Bendamustine thankfully. So that’s why I refer to it as treatment and not chemo. In case you were wondering.

Easy Does It
Because it's a targeted treatment, and not the broad, systemic toxin that Bendamustine is, the Rituxan treatment is about as easy as it goes. I felt fine, with the except for a little headache, fogginess on the Saturday after each treatment. I continued my running each week, and this week, I'm back up to my 10-15 mile a week schedule. That's great, but it creates a strange disconnect when you're sitting in the waiting room, about to get treatment feeling healthy, and are surrounded by people much sicker than you. I felt simultaneously lucky and guilty, and occasionally apprehensive, after all since the eighth floor is all hematologic oncology, all the patients there were likely lymphoma, leukemia or myeloma patients. Hard not to see the sicker patients and wonder if that could be you some day.

 
Super Sensitive
Ever drink too much and couldn’t move your head (or any part of your body) without the whole room spinning? Couldn’t shut your eyes? Couldn’t move your eyes? Yeah, that’s me on too much Benadryl, all at once.

So on week three, Lana, my angel of a nurse (more on her later), slowly, slowly pushed the Benadryl in my IV. It was the slowest she’s ever pushed 50 mls of Benadryl, she said. What’s the point? When it comes to medicine, I’m super sensitive. Makes for a cheap date.

The slow push worked well — some vertigo but manageable. And by week four, we were feeling confident enough that I wouldn’t react to the Rituxan that we went back to Benadryl pills. Much better.


Little Things Matter
When you’re spending seven (the shortest day) to 11 hours (the longest day) in the same infusion chair with the same staff, little things matter. Having Stacy there for the second half of each day was key. Often, we were just surfing on our own devices much of the time, but the physical company helps. So do the little things that Dana-Farber does, like having volunteers push around a food cart for refreshments. And smiling. Nurses, techs, volunteers all greet you with a smile. When you’re going through treatment — even when it’s as relatively easy as mine was — a smile helps. 

Big Things Matter, Too
One of the biggest things about doing a course of infusion is having the same infusion nurse. No matter that all the notes from previous rounds are well documented, and that they’re all capable and nice. As a patient, you feel like your nurse knows you. And I felt like Lana knew us — me and Stacy. It was Lana, my nurse, who was there well past her shift end, when my first infusion lasted until 8:30 pm. I was glad to see her familiar (and yes, smiling) face on weeks 2 and 3. And when she wasn’t my nurse on week 4, she still checked in to see how we were doing. I remember when the Yawkey building opened back in in 2011, I was on a few committees and as people talked about the clinic switchover form one building to the new building, one of the big concerns was whether patients would have their same infusion nurse. I didn’t see the big deal back then. I get it now. 

--Michael


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Processing


Dorothy Parker may have written to have written, but I write to process information.

At least that's one of the reasons. When I started blogging 18 months ago, it was to get the ideas out of my head and onto paper. The ideas, I thought, could do less harm there. I also enjoy the craft of writing - of stringing words and sentences together. Rearranging them so that sentences fit into sentences, into paragraphs, into a seamless, smooth surface. What I discovered along the way of 100 or so posts is that writing is also how I process information. It's how I digest what's been said, and figure out in my brain what it means to me, and how I'll deal with it. Even when what I'm presenting seems straightforward, it's never about reporting information to me; it's always about processing.

Which brings me to Monday night's post. I had the hardest time writing it because it was just information, and it was just information because I didn't know how to process what I heard. It was good news - scans looked great; bloodwork looked great. If we were to do PET/CT which isn't always necessary, we'd likely find No Evidence of Disease. It was good news!  But I was blocked. And the more I was blocked, the less I could process; the less I could process, the more I was blocked.

Dog chase tail. 

Then to confound things, my inability to write - to celebrate through words, to celebrate with this small handful of people who have been my crutch and my support, well that just pissed me off. And then, because I couldn't write about that -- about the fact that I was angry and frustrated that I couldn't use my writing to process it -- well that just made me question whether I should be celebrating. That's just crazy. My inability to write started to affect how I felt.

Dog chase tail.

I wouldn't be the first person to say that as lousy as cancer is, it brings blessings in disguise. A fellow blogger uses that very title in her blog. To me, the blessing has never been about appreciating moments more, I've always been grateful for the life I lead, even if I might be just a bit more aware of the beauty in the mundane these days. To me the two greatest gifts cancer's given me are an ability to do my job better, and a chance to do what I love to do: write.

There are many stories of writers who can trace the seeds of their writing career to their childhood  --to stories written for their elementary school magazine or a teenage writing contest or such. Not me. I had a love and aptitude for numbers as a kid. I was going to be an accountant. Truth. Then somewhere, in college, I think, I started writing. Crappy poems. Amateur short stories. Oddball pieces for fringe magazines and newsletters. But they got me to a point where I was 23 and  sitting by myself on English Beach in Vancouver, B.C., at the end of a day that I don't remember, writing. And  I decided. This is what I should do. 

More than 25 years later, thanks to this blog, I'm writing today more than ever, and like the news I got yesterday, that's a good thing.

--Michael