Soon I will be her

I started the week with outpatient surgery: extraction of the sentinel lymphatic nod, insertion of the port for the chemo to come. Before surgery, I had several injections of a nuclear substance that will help track any cancerous influence on the sentinel nod. That was a quick and unpleasant procedure, which however provided fun and colored side-effects on the following days. Who has not dreamed of aquamarine-colored pee one day or another?

Waking up from surgery turned out to be quite a process. I was not the only one in charge. In addition to my own, usual, self (polite, timely, compliant) my body insisted to be part of the conversation and I must admit, my body is rebellious and mulish. It went like this:

Nurse: How are you doing honey?

Me: I feel a little dizzy.

My body: this is awful! I protest! Nausea City!

Nurse: I just gave you some anti-nausea drug in your IV. Try and eat some of those crackers. That will help.

Me: thank you.

My body: If you munch even one of those fish shaped cracker, you will regret it bitterly.

Me: …sorry…

Nurse: That’s ok honey. We are used of patients projectile-vomiting all over the place.

My body: Told you so. I will do it again in the car on the way home, by the way.                           

The next morning, I was dealing with a sore upper-chest area but I had been able to sleep and I was no longer feeling sick. It was time for another kind of trauma: the chemo class. It could be sub-titled “Be scared. Be very scared”. This is about letting you know what to expect through chemo, a time to detail all the possible side-effects, and of course there are loads of them. I should expect discomfort, turbulent digestive system, over-sensitive skin, pains and aches. I am required to panic at any infection or cold and get seen by a doctor in the very next hours – or I may end up in intensive care, as my immune system will be weakened.  

I was utterly terrified when I left the class with Irvin. Yet there were some thought I could hold on to. This will last for a few weeks. Some time in spring, maybe by the end of April, it will be over. I met a friend in the lobby of the oncologist clinic. She gave me the biggest hug – so sorry to see me start a journey she knew all too well. But she is cancer-free now and was coming for her regular follow-up. Soon, I will be her.