I have always said that once I had kids, I became a better actor because my emotions lived so much closer to the surface. If that's true, then this shit should make me fucking Olivier. I've had numerous moments of emotional fragility over the past couple of months. It’s usually been when I’ve had more questions than answers, and when I’m home alone with nothing to occupy my mind. (Showers are particularly bad.) I do best with information, but I’m being very particular as to where I get it. I’ve been avoiding Dr. Google like, well, Cancer. I’ve also avoided legitimate sites like the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, or National Cancer Institute. Nor do I pour over the voluminous handouts the various healthcare professionals give me. I figure I’ll only understand about 10% of what I read, and the other 90% will send me in to a tailspin. They enumerate all possibilities from the best-case scenarios to the worst, and one’s mind never fixates on the best, “Clearly, based on what I read here, my treatment will eradicate all signs of Cancer and I’ll experience no ill side-effects.” So, I wait until I see my doctor, and pepper her with questions. When Shawnna is with me, she takes notes so I can just listen.
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Notice the resemblance? "Laurence Olivier 1907 - 1989" by oneredsf1 is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 |
I'm not a guy who gets nervous. Public speaking doesn't give me a moment's pause, whether it's extemporaneous or prepared. In fact, the only time I actually remember getting nervous as an adult was right before my wedding. I am nervous about the next four-and-a-half months, though. I don't think I'm scared. Scared is different than nervous. Nervous is more about the 'not knowing' of it all. I don't like not knowing. But about this, I know not. And I guess that's got to be okay. I've tried to occupy my time by focusing on what I do know, which means a lot of shopping for hats.
First Day of Chemo
7:15 – Labs, they draw blood and access my port. It’s a lot nicer than getting stuck in the arm or the back of the hand.
8:00 – Appointment with my Doctor. I ask her some clarifying questions about the meds. (I have three different anti-nausea prescriptions from which to choose. It’s a veritable smorgasbord.) She signs Shawnna’s form for intermittent leave, and listens to my heart and lungs. That’s it. I am sent down to infusion.
9:00 – 4:45 – Infusion, the actual administration of the Chemo meds, but first, we start with the pre-meds, two different anti-nausea compounds. See the trend?
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| The bathroom at Levine Cancer Institute Infusion, Bldg. 2, 4th Floor |
My primary nurse, Sarah Catherine, is a young newlywed from Tennessee with a long mane of red hair. She explains everything she’s doing, goes over each of the subsequent medications in detail, and seems to truly love her job. She’s a consistent presence throughout the day, and I’m grateful both for and to her.
My Chemo regimen consists of four different drugs and is collectively referred to as R-CHOP. It’s the “R” that I am particularly concerned about. That’s the one that I have been repeatedly told is “highly likely” to cause adverse reactions during the infusion – difficulty breathing, chills, rigors. I am somewhat interested in the ‘rigors’ because I imagine them as something that might befall a French opera heroine, or a hoop-skirted doyenne of the Ante-bellum South. Naturally, because “R” is first in the acronym, I assume it will be the first drug administered. Sarah Catherine tells me it will be last, so I have the entire day to look forward to it. The Med Tech tests my blood pressure two different times, and it’s sky-high. “It’s natural to be nervous,” she says.
The first actual Chemo drug I’m given is Doxorubucin, which is the “H” in R-CHOP. (Read the preceding sentence one more time.) Sarah Catherine doesn’t hang an IV bag for it, she pushes it directly through a syringe. It’s red. I’m told numerous times, by numerous healthcare providers that I shouldn’t be alarmed if my urine is red for the next two days. (There is much discussion of urine and bowel movements when one has Cancer.) It takes about 10 minutes for her to push two syringes.
The second drug I get is the Vincristine, which is, wait for it... the “O” in R-CHOP. It is administered through an IV bag and takes about 30 minutes. Drug number three is Cyclophosphamide, which, oddly enough, is the “C” in R-CHOP.
By this point, I’ve mentioned to Sarah Catherine multiple times that I’m more than a little worried about the “R,” Rituximab. She is so worried about my worries that she offers to fetch the Chaplain for me. I ask her if it would be possible to be visited by a therapy dog instead, and she tells me that they haven’t been around since COVID, which seems a bridge too far to me. Thanks, CDC. It is then, that I randomly get a text from an old fraternity brother who wanted me to know he watched “Tick, Tick... Boom” on Netflix the night before and actually enjoyed it. (I was the token Liberal, Jewish, Theatre Major in my fraternity. They knocked out three quotas in one when I pledged.) We spend the next 30 minutes texting back and forth about Musical Theatre, University of South Carolina football, and Cancer. Then, my friends and colleagues from Children’s Theatre of Charlotte bombard me with memes, messages and a video of Carolyn’s grandbaby because she’s obsessed. I don’t think they could possibly appreciate how timely and appreciated this simple act is. (If you're ever unsure whether to reach out to someone, don't be. Just reach out.) Their messages bring a smile to my lips and a tear to my eye at the right and perfect time. I relax a little bit in the run-up to the “R”.
Before Sarah Catherine hangs the “R,” I get more pre-meds – Tylenol and 500mg of Benadryl. She starts the drip very slowly, which is why this one takes so long. She will ramp up the speed over time depending on my tolerance. If I start to have reactions, they stop the drip and administer drugs to counteract them. Once things have settled, they’ll start it back up. I have no reactions. Zip. Zero. Gornisht mit gornisht. In fact, because of the Benadryl, I sleep most of the time. (The IV pump beeps whenever it’s time to adjust the rate of the drip, so it’s not a restful sleep, but sleep nonetheless.) My worries are for naught, though when I question Sarah Catherine, she suggests that most people do, in fact, react to the “R.” Perhaps it will have the opposite effect on me and I’ll wake up the next morning with super powers like Peter Parker, or, more likely, Ben Grimm.
Notice the resemblance?
So, now it’s home, in bed asleep by 7:30, and prepare for what the next three weeks may bring before I do it all again.
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