12 E-mail: first chemo

3/31/2006

How did the first chemo go? Physically, it went well I guess. I learned a new term: “access your port.” When the needle goes into the port in my arm so I can receive the chemotherapy drugs straight to my heart, the nurse has accessed my port. The needle looks like a hook, sort of. It has a ninety degree bend. It has to go through the skin to get to the port, so I get stuck with yet another needle. Once it’s in, though, it doesn’t really hurt. For the first hour it itched like an insect bite, but even that faded to no sensation eventually. Then there was a series of IV bags. Some were just saline solution. One or two held steroids with anti-nausea medication. The first cancer killing drug, Adriamycin, was given to the IV through a syringe. The nurse pushed that one manually over a period of about five minutes while I sucked on ice chips. The ice deadens the nerves in the mouth to help prevent mouth sores. This delivery of a drug is called a “push” since it gets pushed through the syringe rather than dripping from an IV bag. The last cancer killing drug, Cytoxan, was preceded and followed by saline.

Emotionally, the infusion (another new word for my lexicon) was difficult. I think I cried at least three times while I was there. Guy handed me tissues and held my hand. At first all I thought was, “I don’t want to be here.” Towards the end I thought, “Well, it’s done. I’m definitely going to lose my hair now. There’s no turning back.” I left the center feeling basically okay but a little “squishy” (like I’m beginning to feel now).

Today I went to a wig shop and ordered a wig. I feel better now about losing my hair. I think the wig is going to look very nice. It has real human hair and will have strawberry blond highlights. I think the style looks professional and flattering. I’m also going to look for a hat this weekend with a friend. I’ve been told it’s nice to have a sleeping hat or turban since you shouldn’t sleep in a wig and your head can get cold at night when you don’t have hair.

Before I left the cancer center to go home I had to pick up my medication. The anti-nausea IV I was given is supposed to last three days, but it can be supplemented with pills if needed. Last night I ended up taking two pills because things were getting kind of rough. They put me right out so I slept about 11 hours. After three days I’m supposed to switch to a different anti-nausea pill. We paid only $20 for this drug, but the full price for 30 pills is $1,215. Guy and I just about fell over when we saw that price. Thank God for insurance!

I think I’m okay with the idea of chemotherapy now. Chemotherapy is a systemic treatment. That means it treats parts reached by the blood system. It is possible for cancer cells to break away from their original source site and travel via the blood to other locations throughout the body. Chemotherapy is designed to kill the microscopic cancer cells that may exist in the body. It does this by killing rapidly dividing cells, which is why chemotherapy can affect hair growth. Not all chemotherapy drugs make one’s hair fall out, and not all drugs affect hair growth all the time, but Adriamycin always makes a person’s hair fall out. An alternative combination of chemotherapy drugs might have spared my hair, but it hasn’t been proven to be as effective as Adriamycin given with Cytoxan followed by Taxol and I didn’t think my vanity was worth the risk.

When I asked my oncologist about the other drug combination CMF, he gave me a computer printout to show the statistics of AC plus T versus CMF. Based on factors such as my age, my general health (excellent), tumor size, number of lymph nodes involved, and a couple of other factors the statistics showed some interesting things. For one thing, out of 100 women like me, 52 of them are alive and without cancer in 10 years. That’s with no treatment. With the CMF treatment, 14 more of the 100 are alive and without cancer because of therapy. With the AC plus T treatment, 24 more are alive and without cancer because of therapy.

That’s a sobering thought. I’m undergoing 16 weeks of poison so I can improve my chances by 24. That gives me a 76% chance of not having a relapse. The stats say 1 out of 100 women die from other causes. The other 13 have a relapse within 10 years. A relapse isn’t necessarily a death sentence. It’s just another round of poison and possibly surgery and all the emotions that go with it.

The nice part is how upbeat my oncologist is about my situation. And today I was contacted by the volunteer from a cancer support group I reached out to. She was earlier in her pregnancy than I was when she was diagnosed, so she went through chemotherapy while pregnant. She told me she took four weeks off between having her daughter and starting radiation. That was 3 years ago and mother and daughter are both doing fine so far. It was good to talk to her, and I’m going to join the group of young adults she’s starting up to meet once a month.

It’s late so I’d best be off to bed. Kelric is doing better now that he’s been on the soy formula for several days. Thank you, Craig, for suggesting that we let him sleep in the car seat instead of laying him flat in his crib at night. The car seat idea is working very well here. Yesterday evening we had a screaming baby, but he made it through the night (in the car seat) without incident. This evening we had a little bit of a fussy spell but minimal screaming. Our baby who sleeps like a baby has come back to us.

Angela

Previous 11 E-mail: chemo tomorrow
Next 13 E-mail: my first complication