I wouldn’t say it’s going great. On Wednesday, I had some swelling and discomfort up my neck where the port catheter runs.
Since I’d been running a low-grade fever and was having pain, the nurse on the phone said we needed to check for infection or blood clots. This sent me into a panic attack; my mother was hospitalized last week for blood clots. Bob has basically become a life-size Pez dispenser that shoots out Ativan and Zofran. We headed in to the Fergus Falls Emergency Department. It’s about a half-hour drive, maybe less. We got there a bit before 8 p.m.
It took four hours to find a vein through which they could inject contrast dye for the CT scan of my chest and neck. Since I had lymph nodes removed from my left armpit, my left arm is not to be used for needle pokes and blood pressure monitoring, basically, forever. I might as well not even have it. Four different people had a go, and the anesthesiologist they called in was finally successful.
We’d be there another four hours, waiting for the after-hours service to read the images, and waiting for the okay on treatment from my oncology team in Minneapolis (slow going at 2 a.m.). We hadn’t eaten dinner before heading to the ER, not realizing how long we’d be there. Bob took all the dollars I had out of my wallet for the vending machine, but I was gone so long for the needle pokes that he ate everything but basically four almonds. He could have put the wrappers in the garbage so I didn’t have to think about what, specifically, I didn’t eat. The results of the tests were that I have cellulitis, and was prescribed an antibiotic.
My internal thermostat is messed up. One minute I’m sweltering, soaking the bedsheets top and bottom; the next, freezing and shivering. It’s hard to parse out what might be chemo-related, versus fighting this infection, versus menopause (have my ovaries even received the memo? They’re probably mad that their party is ending early). The secret to temperature modulation seems to be in my throat: if I’m shivering, a few sips of hot water will stop it. I really wish I would have figured this out sooner than I did.
As my doctor predicted, today is hair exodus. Two weeks after chemo started. It comes out easily, like picking grass, but not all of it; I’ll have Bob shave it off tonight. I shaved my grandmother’s head when she started losing her hair from chemo. That seemed more momentous. Her hair was fancy; beautifully platinum, it took tons of time to fix up, with curlers and one of those helmet hairdryers. She had a special pillowcase to keep it looking good as long as possible. Silk, so her hair would slide and not get mashed.
When I’m well I can entertain myself for hours and hours, just thinking about things. I’m a world-class idler. When I’m acutely sick, the doorways to those places are closed. It makes the discomfort interminable. And I can’t be convinced that I will, probably, feel better eventually.
Current mood: balding and sweaty. And a shot of today's harvest (haven't shaved my head yet).
