This is life

This post for me. In a few months, when I'm chemo-treatment-free, I hope to look back at the days when I found the strength to make it through even the hardest of days. I want to remind the future me, that if I can do this, I can do anything.

What's life like on a Wednesday with chemo? On Tuesday night, I stress out that the house is a mess. There is nothing like feeling sick and not being able to clean a messy house. So we clean-up and I put together my pills for the next 3 days. On Wednesdays, I have amazing people who come with me to the hospital. In part for moral support but mostly because I can't drive myself home.

At the hospital, I check-in and say hi to the registration ladies. They are wonderful. Then a nurse takes my weight, height, blood pressure and temp. Then I go into a room where I answer a bunch of questions about medicine and my general health. It can be embarrassing to discuss all this in front of other people. I've learned to be less modest. It's important to be honest to get good treatment. Then I get accessed with a giant needle. I don't ever look. It hurt at first but now I have so much scar tissue it doesn't matter. I learned how my port sits in my chest, what size needle and how much heparin is needed to flush the port. Then, they push vinblastine and methotrexate into my line. I also know how much of each I'm given. It's quick but I can feel the medicine hit my stomach. It hurts and makes me feel queasy. I've almost thrown up the last 4 times. I get goosebumps because I'm trying to swallow down anything that might come up. It is disgusting. It passes within a few minutes but I usually get Sprite and crackers.

The drive home is the worst. I feel like I'm in a daze. Every bump on the road makes my stomach lurch. We finally get home and I try to go to sleep. Today, I slept from noon to 4:30. I woke up and wished I was still asleep. I often sleep because I'm trying to avoid the pain in my stomach. I smell like drugs. At this point, I actually hold my breath while I go to the bathroom. My mouth is caked with a dry sensation. I chew gum and suck on mints all day so I can't taste the medicine. That dried out, chemical taste doesn't go away for 24 hours.

On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I count down the hours and minutes until I can take my second anti-nausea pill. It takes 45 minutes to kick in. If I can't make it, I take a benadryl and force myself to sleep. I can feel my stomach making noises and moving things within it. Eating and drinking both sound like acts of torture. My husband forces me to eat on Wednesday. He knows the more I eat, the better I will feel tomorrow. He is always right but it is always a fight. As soon as I start eating, I feel incrementally better. I'm sick of get-better food. I can't eat anymore pretzels, crackers, toast, soup or sprite when I'm feeling well. I've had a whole year of nothing but eating get-better food.

I count down the days until I'm done. I count my blessings because I know I'm lucky. I think of all the people who have life-threatening diseases, or mothers who have chemo, or poor people who only know the pain of hunger. I'm grateful to almost be done but I don't want to forget. I want to remember these days because they are making me stronger than I ever knew was possible. This is my life and each and every thing that has happened has made me better and stronger.