When I got to the intersection of Oak and 16th today, I watched my dear bridesmaid A (since I wrote that on a chart as her relation to me, its now official) flip a U turn in her itty bitty Smartcar. You could practically do a u-turn on the sidewalk in that thing, its so tiny! It was fun to ride to chemo in the bitty-bitty-plastic-toy-car. I’ve always wanted to see what that was like, and today I got my chance. A came with me to this chemo because Sammy had some important work stuff happening, and the poor guy has already re-arranged his schedule probably a hundred times to come with me to things. I’m going to have to line up some friends to come to these exceedingly boring appointments with me.
After we rode the elevator up to the 6th floor and checked in, we noticed the absolutely ridiculous selection of books. I absolutely love trashy novels, but these were even beyond my typical trashy airport fare. One even included a title something like “The Handbook for Handling His Lordship: Scandalous Brides” and the picture on the cover was of a woman who’s blouse was slinking down her shoulders. This book would probably give me high blood pressure. I mean seriously. I should have photographed this awesomeness so you too could appreciate the scandalous and trashy reading the cancer agency is providing for patients. Then again, all these old people probably need a little trashy romantic novel porn with their chemo.
The nurse came and got me, and settled me in a big chair. She connected my port, which hurt because its still bruised! Next time I’m bringing some numbing cream to make the needle prick not something I have to worry about. And then we waited. The nurse has to specially administer the first cocktail, which is bright red, from a syringe into my port with the saline solution. I couldn’t feel anything beyond the initial poke into my port. After that, I switch to the second drug, which is 45 minutes, and then I’m done with everything. It’s pretty easy. There’s warm blankets and ginger-ale and cookies. And its hella boring.
An older woman getting chemo in the same room told me not to shave my head because who knows what will happen, but I’m doing it anyway. In the next few days, I’m doing it, well, really, either my friend C is doing it, or Sammy gets to do the honors. If I wait a few more days, I get to rock this short haircut I am in love with a little longer, and as an added bonus, if I decide to go to the department holiday thing tomorrow evening there won’t be too many questions about why I shaved my head, just crowing over how awesome short hair is, which I can totally handle. The nurse said it will likely start falling out right around my second chemo treatment, which is in two weeks, and right after Christmas.
The many faces of chemo:
Oh, and guess what? I was kind of jazzed anyway this afternoon because my article on gender/media/development got published in Feminist Media Studies! This is totally awesome, mostly because I have wanted to be among these writers for like, ever. Finally, I’ve arrived. To Feminist Media Studies. And, I got “Accept as is” after the first set of revisions, which is also totally awesome. In my supervisors’ words (and lets face it, she knows everything) “This never happens. Except when it does.” And it did, to me! There is hope after all. If someone could just let the cancer know I can easily battle back with cultural theory, media studies, and feminism, that’d be great. I’m certain I can out-write this fucker. If only that was the challenge.
I feel a bit strange now. I think I’m dizzy from the steroids. Yep, I’m getting steroids. And an array of little pills the nurse described as “stop-signs” and “house-shapes” and for the ovals, “yellow footballs.” Officially weird. So, since I’m now feeling a little strange, I’ll go ahead and close this blog post and go read a trashy novel in the bathtub. Next time, I’m gonna get one of the even trashier cancer novels, maybe something about lordships and scandalous brides.