Halfway... No, Really.

Wait time at Simmons was redonkulous today. Got there on time for once (which is good, cause next time I have to be there at 7:55am ew), and got my own room for port access which went well.

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Still a little under the weather, but since I’ve been fever free since Sunday, most of my coughing is gone and congestion is only minimal. So, I got the all clear for treatment today.

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After seeing Dr. K, which was something of a wait in and of itself, I was deposited back in the main waiting room at around 10:30am. At NOON, they finally called me to a treatment room :headdesk: It wasn’t until 12:15 that I was hooked up and dripping.

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I had a lot of time to watch the world while I was waiting- well, watch the march of Cancer before me. I’m struck that each time I go to Simmons that room is busier and busier. More and more filled chairs. More hats and scarves and wigs (good and bad). I can pick out the new people now: thicker stacks of paperwork, a mix of confidence (it won’t be me, it’s not happening to me) and fear (what if it’s really bad?). Women waiting in high heeled shoes, leaning against the wall twirling their white paper wristbands. In a few more weeks, they’ll sit too. In sneakers, house-shoes, sandals. They’ll learn to conserve their energy like the rest of us.

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But the thing that struck me most today is something that’s sort of passed through my consciousness ever since this all started. I looked around me, at the families, the couples, even those daring to appear alone for appointments and treatments and tests. Mine is inevitably the youngest face in the room. Sometimes there will be someone my age, or younger- but their wrists are empty. No white label marking them “patient.” They’re the support team, not the fighters.

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I’m not in the part of the center where they treat the young cancers. No brave children here, or annoyed teens. No bright colors and murals. This is a sea of middle-age, late life fighters. 50s, 60s, older. And me. The girl with the 60 year old woman’s cancer. And I see the looks sometimes, as though maybe I’m lost. Or in the wrong waiting room. And they the nurse calls me. Confusion clarifies into pity. Want to feel about 2 feet tall? Get the, “you poor girl” look from a roomful of other Cancer patients.

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And I struggle- not to be angry. Not with the people around me, but with this body. This body that betrayed me. Except it didn’t really. If you want to lay it all out- this is payback for years of self-hatred, self-loathing, self-defeat. And I know it doesn’t really work like that. But sometimes, I can almost hear my body saying, “all you had to do was learn to love me sooner.”

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But, I’m home again. Exhausted. Treatment itself was odd, but this round seems to just BE odd. No allergic reaction this time thankfully. They pumped me full of benedryl FIRST, which made me want to jump out of my skin for about 30 minutes. I was raising my left arm and rolling my wrist compulsively for the umpteenth time when the nurse came back in and noticed. Said it’s normal with the benedryl dosage they gave me. She went to request ativan to calm me (which worked eventually).

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At one point I did get the… lead weight on my chest feeling, but it passed and I still had no trouble breathing so I didn’t even push the button or report it. Seems like the benedryl, obnoxious as it was, did the job.

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I got hooked up at , 12:15, and was done around 5:15 so it seems the benedryl did the trick and they didn’t have to slow the drip too much.

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I am exhausted though. I always look worst immediately after treatment. Pale, almost jaundiced, deep set eyes surrounded by circles. I slept most of the way home, then woke up starving (another post chemo issue). We side-tracked to our favorite Chinese place (best to do it before the nausea hits and I’m reduced to ritz for a few days). By the time we were done there, I was done.

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So, now I’m home. Blogging about chemo and Cancer and the reality of a disease that doesn’t matter because it isn’t in my boobs where it can be marketing and lauded and supported by everyone from pen-makers to porn sites.

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My bitterness is coming out. I think that means it’s time to stop now. Blogging will probably be sporadic until late next week after the pain wave comes and goes.