Im a little pissed off

Six days later, on December 22, I was due back at the hospital for the beginning of my anti-cancer regime. That morning Charlotte cheered me on as I took my prescribed twenty-three pills. I never even took a vitamin before so seeing the pile of medicine I had to take was daunting. It included: two tablets of allopurinol, (to treat excess uric acid), ten tablets of dexamethasone (steroid), one tablet of aciclovir (anti-viral), ten tablets of cyclophosphamide (chemotherapy drug) and one tablet of metoclopramide (anti-nausea). Drinking all that water to get the pills down was valiant. I also had no idea how this cocktail of drugs would affect me. I prepared myself to feel absolutely awful the rest of the day.

      I had been told that the chemo drug would lower my body’s immune system. With all the talk about super bugs, I was worried about catching something at the hospital. I prepared myself by going to a chemist first. I bought five one-dollar surgical masks. I put one on and as I walked up the steps to the hospital I looked appropriately as sick as I felt. I was one of those people you shook your head at sadly because it was just before Christmas and I was knocking on death’s door.

      I entered the hematology day stay room and sat on one of the beds. When the nurse asked how I was, I answered automatically.

      “I’m fine.”

It was totally inane. I should have said:

“I’m a little pissed off actually. I’ve got cancer.”

The nurses all reacted strangely to my mask. I was the only one in the ward wearing one. Finally one nurse couldn’t contain herself. She pointed at my face and said:

      “Why are you wearing a mask?”

       “I am completely paranoid after starting the chemo drugs today, that I might catch a bug.” I mumbled through the humid plastic covering my mouth.

As if on cue someone walking down the hallway outside the day stay sneezed loudly. I raised my eyebrows to show how smart I was being. The nurse didn’t appear impressed.

      “You don’t have to worry. Your immune system will be lowered slightly but not really compromised.”

I suddenly felt stupid sitting there in my one-dollar mask.

      “Okay then. How will the drugs affect me?” (If you’re so smart, answer this)

      “The steroids might keep you awake and the chemo might cause a bit of nausea. But the nausea is usually minor if anything and the anti-nausea drugs will take care of it.”

      Before I went to the hospital, I had an image of cancer patients from old movies lying in bed on a chemo drip, vomiting violently, getting thinner by the minute, balding and on the slippery slope to death. This sounded a lot better than in the movies. Besides the mask stunk and made my nose run. On top of that, the nurses seemed to think it was a waste of time. After that first day I never wore one again.

      An Indian nurse took my vital signs. She had a student shadowing her, an older, nervous woman with grey hair. My blood pressure was through the roof again.

      “Your blood pressure is really high,” she said.

I remembered how the doctor managed the problem a week earlier.

      “I was given very bad news.” I explained. It seemed to work. Neither the Indian nurse nor her student relayed my vitals to anyone else.

      Next she gave me a subcutaneous shot of velcade (bortezomib) in the stomach.  She wiped an area on my skin with an alcohol pad, grabbed some stomach fat between her fingers and injected the needle. It only took a moment and only stung a little. But I couldn’t watch it going in. I think I held my breath while it was happening, I’m not sure. Bortezomib is a newer drug which has shown good clinical response against multiple myeloma. On this first day I mispronounced it in my head as bortez –i-bomb. The pronunciation stayed with me. I liked the idea of a “bomb” being delivered into my stomach every week, like a torpedo discharged on a mission to annihilate my cancer cells. It gave the drug action and determination. Before I left I was given a big red folder. It contained information on chemo side effects, mouth care, survival strategies, wigs, the cancer society, leukemia and blood foundation and tai chi. Basically it was about all the bad stuff that was headed my way and what to do to cope with it. I wondered who had the folder before me, if they were still alive, and who I would pass it on to.

      I was told I could go but Alex and I wanted to see the doctor. We didn’t know what the results of the bone marrow biopsy or x-rays were.

      The nurses scrambled to get hold of him. He met us for a few hurried minutes.  He told me that even before taking the anti-cancer drugs today, the steroids I took when I was first diagnosed had already started getting rid of the excess plasma cells in my blood. That was a positive sign.

      “There are some tiny lesions on your bones. You have some kidney impairment but it’s not dramatic.” The doctor rattled off.

      I smiled too soon.

      “The bone marrow biopsy showed 90% plasma cells. You are full of disease.”

It was like being told I was the worst person in the world. I felt like I was standing in a corner with my head bowed towards the wall with a dunce’s cap on my head. I was suddenly stupid, ugly, worthless and unclean. There was no way I could defend myself so I just nodded.

      He raised his eyebrows in anticipation of any questions that might delay him further from his prearranged schedule. We just thanked him and slunk away. It was a quiet ride home. When we got there I looked up the answer to the question I was afraid to ask him. How many plasma cells was I supposed to have in my bone marrow? It appeared the answer was closer to three per cent.