Aug 12, 2014
You never quite know how you will handle situations as they arise. I think that's true for life in general, and also when going through canser treatment.
Chemo is a funny thing. It can represent Hope. And instill Terror. Sometimes simultaneously. Neither the docs nor you know how your body will handle the drugs chosen to get rid of the canser that has invaded your body. They inject you, wait and see, and hope for the best. You hear way more bad stories about chemo - sadly often by people who have never actually had chemo but perhaps watched someone (they love) go through it - than good ones. I was lucky enough to hear at least as many hopeful stories as I did horrible ones before I started and even knew what kind of chemo I was going to have. I heard of a number of young people (in their 30's) who stayed active throughout chemo. The idea that it was possible planted a seed of hope that grew in my heart. Hope is a very powerful ally in this fight.
Looking back now, I think FEC (first 4 rounds of chemo) was rougher on me in some ways, than I realised. But as nauseous as I was, and aside from some of the other side effects ravaging my body, I kept hearing the doc saying "You should tolerate FEC fairly well. The docetaxel is harsher on the body". This, combined with hearing other way worse chemo stories after starting my own chemo (from people I knew) resulted in me just pushing through thinking this was supposed to be the "easy" part.
With my 1st round of docetaxel going off without a hitch - aside from the horrible headaches and some stomach pain - I couldn't believe my luck. Even with these side effects, this was much more tolerable than my previous 4 rounds on FEC. I could function (well) in the 4 days following treatment. That was the first Silver Lining. I did worry about getting sick and how it would affect my counts.
Before my treatment started today, when I actually saw that my neute count - which was at 3.9 prior to any chemo and never went above 2 since chemo started - was at 4.3, I think I lit up the room with my smile. Maybe the diet benefits are finally kicking in. Maybe the exercise is helping. Maybe this drug is not as harsh for my counts as others (since it affects everyone differently) Who knows? But it was a victory worth celebrating.
So everything prior to them starting my 2nd dose of this drug was going well. My heart was still full from The Ride. I was delighted with my neute count victory. And my "other medicine" was keeping me calm once again.
I think the above is what got me through the next half hour.
They started my docetaxel dose and the nurse sort of sat with us for the first bit chatting. About 10 minutes in or so I started to feel a warmth creeping up my left arm, which is the arm that had the IV in it. I've felt warmth before with the "Red Devil" drug from FEC so I wasn't overly concerned. Then, like a cartoon character who's eaten something spicy, I felt the warmth move slowly up my neck, as it also started to flush red, and slowly continue past my jaw, up to my cheek bones.
Me: "Um, I'm feeling warm and my face is hot"
Nurse: "Oh ya you're flushed red."
She immediately stopped the treatment.
Nurse: "How's your breathing?"
Me: "Um, my lungs feel a bit tight but kinda mild - not severe. Little trouble breathing."
She turned on the saline solution to flush my veins, while telling me I should start to feel better shortly. Although she didn't look panicked, she was watching me closely. Within a minute or two I felt the warmth receding. Very strange feeling. My face was still flushed red. Esp my cheeks - super rosy. I wasn't ever panicked through all this but I was tuned into my body to make sure it wasn't getting worse. Esp the breathing part. She left the saline flush on and went to get liquid Benadryl. Or maybe she stayed and another nurse brought it to give me via IV. It's a big foggy. She definitely stayed with me while the Benadryl started. It stung a bit in my veins. Guess that's normal. I got super drowsy very fast. Like had to sit back and close my eyes. That's normal too. But the warmth was (mostly) gone and no breathing issues so I was like "IV on".
And then all hell broke loose.
A nurse a few chairs down from us, to our left (in the corner of the room that we could not see cause of the curtains that separate each chemo chair) yelled suddenly "I think she's crashing. Code blue!". Then the patients husband started yelling in a panic:
"No, no....baby, baby, stay with me!"
"Open your eyes! Please don't leave! Look at me! Stay with me!".
Nurses were running, they were paging for help, docs and lots of other medical personal came running into the room - like 30-50 over the course of the next 15-20 minutes. One crash cart - with paddles - raced by us. Then a bigger one.
Her poor husband was getting more distraught by the minute.
"Please, please don't leave me!
"Do something!"
"HELP HER!"
(sobbing and moaing)
"Please, please stay with me! Don't die now!"
Those emotional pleas continue to haunt me long after my treatment was done. It was heartwrenching.
In my chemo chair, I started to get upset but it had nothing to do with me. It was for this family that were facing the worse case scenario for chemo treatment. I kept saying in my head, and outloud to Phil "Please don't let it be her first chemo treatment, please don't let it be her first chemo treatment".
The whole chemo room was quiet except for the nurses and docs who were frantically trying to help this woman. I wonder if everyone who was getting treatment in that room was thinking the same as me "That could be any one of us".
I heard her hubby finally seem to calm down, which I took to be a good sign. Then I heard the nurses and docs talking to the patient. They rolled in what turned out to be a portable xray machine (I assume for her heart).
At the other end of the room to my right was an older gent who was in for his 1st treatment as well. Looked about in his 70's with his son in his 50's. He could see everything. His is part of the reason I was (mostly) able to keep it together. I didn't want him to panic if I got upset too and get scared. You've got plenty of fear on your 1st treatment - seeing a "code blue" (we think her heart stopped - she wasn't breathing) is scary as hell for anyone, nevermind at your 1st treatment. Phil assured me he was Ok. I worried my (mild) reaction to chemo followed by this sobering reminder of the risks of chemo may be too much for him. It was only the next day he admitted it was "scary as hell" for him too.
About half hour after this all started a nurse came to re-start my docetaxel. I admit I was on high alert for any feelings of a reaction again. But in a weird, calm way. This is what I mean about how you never know how you're gonna react to a situation. Had it been a few weeks back, on my last dose of FEC when my head was not in good space, and I got sick in the chemo room, I don't think I would've handled it well. At all.
This was another "time slows down" moment where you find yourself praying for someone you've never met and hoping with all your might that she opens her eyes.
Which she did. They wheeled her past us, sitting upright and alert. With her (sister?) and hubby trailing close behind the 5 or 6 medical people escorting her to another part of the hospital. I think I physically relaxed when I could see she was at least breathing and sitting up.
I asked my nurse:
"I don't want to pry, but was it her 1st treatment?"
Nurse: "Ya. It may have been reaction to the drug. She won't be getting that one again.
Me: " Was it docetaxel?"
Nurse: "No, the one up from that one, Paxitacel (?)"
(I've heard this drug referred as the sister drug to docetaxel)
My heart sunk. Will she and her family get past the trauma of her 1st treatment for whatever other chemo drug they will try instead? This is what I meant on Facebook about "what a shitty way to start treatment" I wasn't talking about me. I meant her. And those who were with her.
The rest of my treatment passed without incident. But any of the lightheartedness was gone. It was a pretty muted room. With good reason.
We all just got a huge dose of reality. This is never fun. Although I must say, the medical staff handled it fast, and efficiently. It seemed long in the moments when the hubby was getting very upset, but I think was in fact only minutes before the crash cart and doctors showed up.
As we drove home, I had a moment where I think the scene we witnessed caught up with me. Lump in throat, watery eyes.
A "holy shit" moment.
It bothered me for a long time that "one of our own", another warrior in this fight, had to have such a horrible experience. Esp for her 1st treatment.
It bothers me still.
I've mentioned before how I feel like I grow after each chemo. This time I kinda felt like I aged a bit. This "shared" experience with a family I don't know will stay with me. It's tucked in with other moments like getting diagnosed, shaving my head, talking to the kids about my diagnoses, meeting One Aim, being overwhelemd with support from friends and strangers etc
These kind of moments impact and change me in ways I don't always expect. I think my gratitude has deepend with each experience. And I'm reminded that you can't control life - all you can do is live each day to it's fullest.
So hug your loved ones tonight. Enjoy your friends. Just breathe.
Life is short. Make it count.
And thank you for making my life so rich.
Chemo is a funny thing. It can represent Hope. And instill Terror. Sometimes simultaneously. Neither the docs nor you know how your body will handle the drugs chosen to get rid of the canser that has invaded your body. They inject you, wait and see, and hope for the best. You hear way more bad stories about chemo - sadly often by people who have never actually had chemo but perhaps watched someone (they love) go through it - than good ones. I was lucky enough to hear at least as many hopeful stories as I did horrible ones before I started and even knew what kind of chemo I was going to have. I heard of a number of young people (in their 30's) who stayed active throughout chemo. The idea that it was possible planted a seed of hope that grew in my heart. Hope is a very powerful ally in this fight.
Looking back now, I think FEC (first 4 rounds of chemo) was rougher on me in some ways, than I realised. But as nauseous as I was, and aside from some of the other side effects ravaging my body, I kept hearing the doc saying "You should tolerate FEC fairly well. The docetaxel is harsher on the body". This, combined with hearing other way worse chemo stories after starting my own chemo (from people I knew) resulted in me just pushing through thinking this was supposed to be the "easy" part.
With my 1st round of docetaxel going off without a hitch - aside from the horrible headaches and some stomach pain - I couldn't believe my luck. Even with these side effects, this was much more tolerable than my previous 4 rounds on FEC. I could function (well) in the 4 days following treatment. That was the first Silver Lining. I did worry about getting sick and how it would affect my counts.
Before my treatment started today, when I actually saw that my neute count - which was at 3.9 prior to any chemo and never went above 2 since chemo started - was at 4.3, I think I lit up the room with my smile. Maybe the diet benefits are finally kicking in. Maybe the exercise is helping. Maybe this drug is not as harsh for my counts as others (since it affects everyone differently) Who knows? But it was a victory worth celebrating.
So everything prior to them starting my 2nd dose of this drug was going well. My heart was still full from The Ride. I was delighted with my neute count victory. And my "other medicine" was keeping me calm once again.
I think the above is what got me through the next half hour.
They started my docetaxel dose and the nurse sort of sat with us for the first bit chatting. About 10 minutes in or so I started to feel a warmth creeping up my left arm, which is the arm that had the IV in it. I've felt warmth before with the "Red Devil" drug from FEC so I wasn't overly concerned. Then, like a cartoon character who's eaten something spicy, I felt the warmth move slowly up my neck, as it also started to flush red, and slowly continue past my jaw, up to my cheek bones.
Me: "Um, I'm feeling warm and my face is hot"
Nurse: "Oh ya you're flushed red."
She immediately stopped the treatment.
Nurse: "How's your breathing?"
Me: "Um, my lungs feel a bit tight but kinda mild - not severe. Little trouble breathing."
She turned on the saline solution to flush my veins, while telling me I should start to feel better shortly. Although she didn't look panicked, she was watching me closely. Within a minute or two I felt the warmth receding. Very strange feeling. My face was still flushed red. Esp my cheeks - super rosy. I wasn't ever panicked through all this but I was tuned into my body to make sure it wasn't getting worse. Esp the breathing part. She left the saline flush on and went to get liquid Benadryl. Or maybe she stayed and another nurse brought it to give me via IV. It's a big foggy. She definitely stayed with me while the Benadryl started. It stung a bit in my veins. Guess that's normal. I got super drowsy very fast. Like had to sit back and close my eyes. That's normal too. But the warmth was (mostly) gone and no breathing issues so I was like "IV on".
And then all hell broke loose.
A nurse a few chairs down from us, to our left (in the corner of the room that we could not see cause of the curtains that separate each chemo chair) yelled suddenly "I think she's crashing. Code blue!". Then the patients husband started yelling in a panic:
"No, no....baby, baby, stay with me!"
"Open your eyes! Please don't leave! Look at me! Stay with me!".
Nurses were running, they were paging for help, docs and lots of other medical personal came running into the room - like 30-50 over the course of the next 15-20 minutes. One crash cart - with paddles - raced by us. Then a bigger one.
Her poor husband was getting more distraught by the minute.
"Please, please don't leave me!
"Do something!"
"HELP HER!"
(sobbing and moaing)
"Please, please stay with me! Don't die now!"
Those emotional pleas continue to haunt me long after my treatment was done. It was heartwrenching.
In my chemo chair, I started to get upset but it had nothing to do with me. It was for this family that were facing the worse case scenario for chemo treatment. I kept saying in my head, and outloud to Phil "Please don't let it be her first chemo treatment, please don't let it be her first chemo treatment".
The whole chemo room was quiet except for the nurses and docs who were frantically trying to help this woman. I wonder if everyone who was getting treatment in that room was thinking the same as me "That could be any one of us".
I heard her hubby finally seem to calm down, which I took to be a good sign. Then I heard the nurses and docs talking to the patient. They rolled in what turned out to be a portable xray machine (I assume for her heart).
At the other end of the room to my right was an older gent who was in for his 1st treatment as well. Looked about in his 70's with his son in his 50's. He could see everything. His is part of the reason I was (mostly) able to keep it together. I didn't want him to panic if I got upset too and get scared. You've got plenty of fear on your 1st treatment - seeing a "code blue" (we think her heart stopped - she wasn't breathing) is scary as hell for anyone, nevermind at your 1st treatment. Phil assured me he was Ok. I worried my (mild) reaction to chemo followed by this sobering reminder of the risks of chemo may be too much for him. It was only the next day he admitted it was "scary as hell" for him too.
About half hour after this all started a nurse came to re-start my docetaxel. I admit I was on high alert for any feelings of a reaction again. But in a weird, calm way. This is what I mean about how you never know how you're gonna react to a situation. Had it been a few weeks back, on my last dose of FEC when my head was not in good space, and I got sick in the chemo room, I don't think I would've handled it well. At all.
This was another "time slows down" moment where you find yourself praying for someone you've never met and hoping with all your might that she opens her eyes.
Which she did. They wheeled her past us, sitting upright and alert. With her (sister?) and hubby trailing close behind the 5 or 6 medical people escorting her to another part of the hospital. I think I physically relaxed when I could see she was at least breathing and sitting up.
I asked my nurse:
"I don't want to pry, but was it her 1st treatment?"
Nurse: "Ya. It may have been reaction to the drug. She won't be getting that one again.
Me: " Was it docetaxel?"
Nurse: "No, the one up from that one, Paxitacel (?)"
(I've heard this drug referred as the sister drug to docetaxel)
My heart sunk. Will she and her family get past the trauma of her 1st treatment for whatever other chemo drug they will try instead? This is what I meant on Facebook about "what a shitty way to start treatment" I wasn't talking about me. I meant her. And those who were with her.
The rest of my treatment passed without incident. But any of the lightheartedness was gone. It was a pretty muted room. With good reason.
We all just got a huge dose of reality. This is never fun. Although I must say, the medical staff handled it fast, and efficiently. It seemed long in the moments when the hubby was getting very upset, but I think was in fact only minutes before the crash cart and doctors showed up.
As we drove home, I had a moment where I think the scene we witnessed caught up with me. Lump in throat, watery eyes.
A "holy shit" moment.
It bothered me for a long time that "one of our own", another warrior in this fight, had to have such a horrible experience. Esp for her 1st treatment.
It bothers me still.
I've mentioned before how I feel like I grow after each chemo. This time I kinda felt like I aged a bit. This "shared" experience with a family I don't know will stay with me. It's tucked in with other moments like getting diagnosed, shaving my head, talking to the kids about my diagnoses, meeting One Aim, being overwhelemd with support from friends and strangers etc
These kind of moments impact and change me in ways I don't always expect. I think my gratitude has deepend with each experience. And I'm reminded that you can't control life - all you can do is live each day to it's fullest.
So hug your loved ones tonight. Enjoy your friends. Just breathe.
Life is short. Make it count.
And thank you for making my life so rich.
Everybody Hurts by REM on YouTube
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