Round 2, not Take 2

First of all, I have to say thanks for all the positive feedback on the blog. I'm touched that it's being read and enjoyed by so many. Mind you, this was not something I originally wanted to do. It was all Josh's idea. He encouraged me to try it, and said it would be the easiest way to keep everyone in the loop -- a way to keep those close to us even closer during such a surreal time.

I have never so much as kept a diary, let alone put all my business out there for everyone to see. But during many sleepless nights when my choices have been to either to lay in bed and obsess over my racing heart or get up and embrace a completely quiet house, I have to admit it's been a soothing alternative. And I had no idea just how therapeutic all of this would be. The fact that people actually like reading it is the real treat. So I'll do my best to keep it going. My dear pal Amy Tannous has also graciously agreed to step in with some quick updates from time to time, as need be. (She's also the one handling our care calendar; her email is tannous98@gmail.com)

So I'm a week home now from my last chemo treatment and beginning to bounce back again. My last hospital stay began on Dec. 9th -- a Tuesday. The day before I was admitted, I was visited by a friend and neighbor, Lisa Menzmer. Lisa and I just became friends earlier this year, but I'm starting to realize she was brought into my life for a reason. And that reason is to lift my spirits, to be my cheerleader, and to make me smile in a snowstorm of craziness called cancer.

This mother of three, substitute teacher and tireless supporter of our kids' elementary school had managed in her spare time to solicit and compile a stunning, leather-bound book of letters -- love letters, really -- from many, many special people in my life. The collection of these powerfully supportive messages, along with some truly amazing original artwork, was overwhelming to say the least. I can't even put my mind around how Lisa made this happen, but it was pure joy to receive. I want to hug each and every one of the contributors for this tremendous gift. (Give me time, I will deliver on this.)

How did she know? How did Lisa know that her gorgeous robins egg blue book of love letters was exactly what I needed to get through Round 2 of chemo? Yes, I read every one of them the night before I went into the hospital, and even brought the book with me for moral support. During the next four days, I would glance at it from my hospital bed. Just the sight of it on the window ledge gave me strength.

I quickly learned that Round 2 was not going to be anything like Round 1. Though it started out the same -- arrived, got settled, waited and waited for my drugs to be administered through the IV. Josh's mom stopped by to deliver two pretty new sets of PJs while we waited some more. I hung out with my newest chemo good luck charm from Josh's aunt (and cancer survivor extraordinaire) Janice, a sweet teddy bear with a dangling photo tag of Camryn and Hayden. Then the nurse, a very young woman (when did nurses start looking so much younger than me?) named Brandy, came in to start my IV. But she failed miserably.

"Try the other arm," I said with my teeth clenched. I'm not typically squeamish, but her attempts on my left arm were pretty painful. (Josh, on the other hand, had already left the room by this time.) So she tried again, this time in my right arm, but no luck. "Has anyone talked to you about getting a PICC line?" she asked. I knew what she was talking about -- a catheter that would mainline the drugs and remain in place for future treatments -- but reminded her that my doctor did not think it was necessary. She said she'd find Dr. Blair and discuss it with him.

This all seemed terribly suspicious. I started to think that maybe Brandy's youth was working against me. After all, she'd managed to tell me upon my arrival that she'd been a nurse for a whopping two years. Two years? I have make-up older than that.

But by the time Nurse Brandy had returned, it didn't much matter how old she was. She told me she'd contacted to the hospital's IV therapy department to discuss the situation, and the response wasn't good. Apparently, one of the chemo drugs from last time (Adriamycin) had done a real number on my veins, and the damage meant they just weren't going to cooperate this time. It was a common side effect that Brandy had never experienced before in her young career as an oncology nurse. Dr. Blair finally agreed that a PICC line was the way to go.

Before I knew it, a team of peppy IV therapy nurses were in my room, ready for business. In case I was on the fence about it, I was quickly given a rundown of all the great reasons for getting a PICC line -- it's only inserted once and can stay in place for three months, it allows medicine to go directly into the superior vena cava that leads to your heart, and it prevents any further needle pokes (since cancer patients need blood drawn frequently to check their white/red cell counts). "How long does it take?" I asked, already feeling drained. The nurses assured me it would be only about ten minutes. "Fine," I replied.

Okay, well, they lied. The whole thing took closer to an hour. It was like having a small surgery all of its own. The room was draped in sterile wrappings, and portable ultrasound and x-ray machines were wheeled in while the IV therapy nurses dressed in complete scrubs kept a constant banter about measurements of the silicone tubing that would be led through a vein in my right arm and end up right next to my heart. They even handed me a piece of the skinny purple tubing, like some sort of creepy keepsake.

Why hadn't anyone given me a hint at how freaking scary it would be? Ten minutes? Where the hell was my husband? Where was my Xanax? "Don't look over here," the nurse warned me, as the numbing medication she'd injected into my arm began to take effect. Yeah, right. As if I would even want to watch. I felt a strange fluttering sensation in my chest and wondered if somehow, something was about to go terribly wrong. Tears began flowing down my cheeks as I stared at the same intersection of ceiling tiles for what felt like an eternity. The nurses assured me everything was fine, and a chest x-ray proved that the PICC line was in place correctly.

By the time they had finished, I was sobbing like a child. Not so much because it hurt, but more because I felt shell-shocked by the afternoon's turn of events. This wasn't how Round 2 was supposed to go. I had never expected (nor had my doctors ever ordered) this delightful appendage that would need weekly dressing changes and prevent me from bathing like a normal person. So much for short sleeves. I didn't even want to think about what the kids would say at the sight of this two-headed dragon coming out of my arm.

Once he was given the green light, Josh reappeared with his mom, looking pale. I wondered if I looked as scared as he did. Finally, I glanced over at my arm. It was still covered in blue antiseptic dye with a huge patch of gauze bandages taped over the insertion point. An IV was already attached to the PICC, beginning the four hours of hydration that were required before my potential-kidney-damaging drugs could be administered. All I wanted to do was sleep. Nurse Brandy arrived and handed me a Xanax. Gee, thanks. Could have used that an hour ago, I thought. Or did I say it out loud?

The rest of my hospital stay remains somewhat foggy in my mind. I had friends (Amy & Lisa) and family (Wendy & Donna) pulling shifts in the hospital this time, instead of poor Josh having to live in the recliner for four days. And, unlike last time, the dreaded nausea I'd been warned of finally hit. I drifted in and out of sleep, courtesy of the anti-nausea (and anti-anxiety) drug Ativan. At one point, I remember waking up -- throwing up -- while sweet Amy rubbed my back. If that's not the sign of a true friend, I don't know what is.

The tides began to turn Thursday, and my nausea was finally under control. A supply of the magic mineral broth that had healed me so nicely last time was brought in from home, warmed up by the nurses, and delivered in Styrofoam cups. I drank it up, and could feel myself getting stronger. I smiled at the thought of my friend Claire McGinness, who'd gotten a copy of the soup recipe and whipped up that particular batch a week prior, just days before she and her family hopped on a plane to Hawaii. "To get you through the worst of it," she'd told me when she dropped it off in individual frozen batches. It was such a kind gesture, and I wished I could channel my appreciation to her on whatever beach she was enjoying that day.

Friday came before I knew it. Josh hooked up the video camera to the hospital TV to show me the sweet video he'd shot of Camryn in her class Christmas concert from Wednesday evening. It was great to see Hayden, both sets of grandparents and Aunt Donna in the audience, cheering her on. But I wasn't prepared for how grown-up my little girl looked on stage, so serious, trying to remember the words to three songs (one of which was accompanied by sign language!) along with all the other second-graders whose moms weren't in the hospital getting chemo. Was this whole experience making her age more rapidly? He didn't say it, but I could tell Josh was thinking the same thing.

Just as I was dwelling on this, Dr. Blair walked in. He was wearing one of his many Grinch-that-stole-Christmas ties. He was interested in knowing, given my experience with all the nausea this time, whether I felt like I needed to spend another night in the hospital. Since I'd already stayed a whole day longer than I had last time, I assured him I was feeling good enough to go home. It was definitely time to go home.

My first round of chemo felt like I was on a trip, and because that whole experience turned out better than I'd expected, I wanted to relive it in Round 2. Wishful thinking. But just like any trip, the memories themselves couldn't be replicated. This particular trip needed to take its own course. Things didn't necessarily go the way I'd wanted, but in the end I had everything I needed to get by -- thanks to my family, my friends, and my cherished robins egg blue book of love letters.

Love and hugs to you all,
Angela

Ooh, I almost forgot to mention -- this coming Monday, Dec. 22 is a big day. Now that I've officially reached the halfway point of my treatment, I'm having another PET scan to measure the size of the tumor in my chest. Please continue to keep me in your prayers. Thank you!