Chemotherapy

“I have cancer”. There is no easy way to say that, and no matter how many times you say it, at first, it doesn’t seem real. In fact, the first time I did manage to say it was a very big moment for me. ‘I have cancer. There, I said it’. ‘I have cancer’. So, obviously, when the tough get cancer, the tough go to the beach.

Diagnosis was on a Thursday night. The next day, Dr Morton, the Haemato-Oncologist, came to visit me for a little chat. He said that Dr Tam had changed his mind about operating the next week (thank merciful goodness… four days is not enough time to mentally prepare for such a huge operation!), but the downside of that was the reason why he had changed his mind. The tumour was wrapped around arteries and other important bits, and would need to be shrunk before it could be cut out. This meant chemo.

So, instead of surgery the following Tuesday, I would start chemotherapy.

What on earth is chemotherapy? Most people don’t know, and it’s kind of like a big bogeyman. It’s what you have when you have cancer, and it makes your hair fall out. That was basically the extent of my knowledge, and there were many people in my extended circle who never got past their misconceptions and fears of chemo. I learnt the hard way (and very quickly) what it was all about.

Chemotherapy is basically just the intravenous (or sometimes oral, or injected into the spinal chord – in my case, intravenous) infusion of certain drugs which kill off all fast-growing cells. Fast growing cells include mouth cells, stomach cells, cells in the reproductive system, hair cells, and one more… oh, that’s right, cancer cells.

My main problem with the whole chemo thing was not the hair thing, once I got used to that idea, but the fertility thing. With most chemotherapy regimes, there is a strong chance that the reproductive cells will be destroyed also, leading to possible infertility. I was nineteen at the time, and had a vague idea that sometime I would like to have children. Suddenly I was being told that there was a chance I might not be able to have children, and the only thing I wanted out of life was babies. I guess that’s human nature.

I enquired about harvesting and freezing eggs. Dr Morton told me, in his usual blunt manner, that we didn’t have time. Harvesting eggs is not like harvesting sperm. To collect sperm to freeze for later is a quick flick of the wrist, whereas eggs require daily injections for awhile to produce more than one (which is standard per month for women, in case you were unaware…) and then surgery to get the damn things out. So, no time, no harvest. Bugger.

The other problem was that my chemo regime was one that was usually given to old men with lung cancer, whose first question is usually not “Can I still have kids after this?” So really, no one knew whether or not this chemo would make me infertile or not.

I spent a long time thinking about this whole issue, and had to eventually come to terms with it in some form or another. I am NOT reconciled to the thought that I might not have children someday. I WILL be a mama, one way or another. At this stage, I am very optimistic that I will be able to conceive naturally, mostly because my periods didn’t stop during chemo, so hopefully my reproductive system wasn’t too badly affected (hopefully it wasn’t affected at all). If not, I would like to adopt, probably from Thailand. However, all of this is quite a way into the future, since I can’t actually attempt to have children for five years after chemo (oh, and I need one of those male things to play a slight role somewhere along the line). I hope these issues will resolve themselves in the fullness of time.

So yes, I had cancer, and yes, I would have to start chemo. But I had an entire weekend before I had to deal with any of that, so we went to the Gold Coast. It was a great weekend, lots of time on the beach, by the pool, eating good food, hanging out in the hotel and generally not thinking about cancer in any way, shape or form. Just call me Cleopatra, Queen of Denial. It was good. Denial is good.

Unfortunately, denial doesn’t last forever. Unfortunately for me, my denial period came to an end when someone wanted to stick poisonous substances in me. Basically, I got into HOCA (Haematology and Oncology Clinics of Australia) and freaked out. I did NOT want to be there. I did NOT want cancer. I did not want a needle in my arm to start putting chemo drugs in. Unfortunately, neither did my body. It took four attempts to put an intravenous line in before one of my veins responded and allowed the needle in. I have shocking veins to start with, and when there’s as much adrenaline running through me as there was that day (I was angry, damn it! I did NOT want cancer! I wanted to GO HOME!) they all retreated even further.

Finally, they gave me some valium (!!!) to calm me down, and we managed to get a line in. After that shocking experience (how many veins can I possibly stick a needle into), I decided I wanted a Porta Cath. A portacath is a silicone button (for lack of a better word) with tubes attached, which is inserted into the chest, which the tubes inside the artery leading to the heart. With a catheter, it is possible to stick a needle into the chest, directly accessing the portacath, creating a quick and easy way of creating an intravenous line in. After four attempts on that first day, it sounded bloody good to me…

Unfortunately, it creates a big fat scar, it hurts like buggery for the first couple of weeks while the muscles in your chest get used to the intrusion, and during the insertion, my anaesthetic failed.

What a good idea the cath turned out to be. Not.

So, the next day, after much reshuffling, I was booked in for a portacath insertion. For some reason, known only to others, this is done in x-ray, without an anaesthetist. I was given more Medazzlum, but I didn’t enjoy it anywhere near as much as I had during the bone marrow biopsy. For a start, I woke up. I was NOT supposed to wake up. I was certainly not supposed to be aware of the fact that someone had their hands inside my chest. It’s times like this you revert back to childhood thoughts and speech patterns: “But you promised I’d be asleep!” “I’m awaaaa-aaake!” “Hello??? You know I’m awake, right?” No one would talk to me – what on earth do you say to someone who’s awake while you have your hands in their chest? – and apparently it was very traumatic for everyone else involved as well. Forgive me if I don’t have a huge amount of sympathy for them… I think being the one lying down is worse than being the one standing around. To be fair, one of the nurses received a needlestick injury from me, so there must have been some sort of unusual activity during the procedure!

I spent the rest of that day receiving stupid chemo drugs, and then I spent that night in the Mater Private Hospital. Interestingly, the beds at the Mater aren’t electric, so regardless of the fact that I had a brand new thingy in my chest and all the surrounding muscles were very sore, I still had to pull myself up!

Chemo was basically three days worth every three weeks. The main and immediate side effect was the nausea. I very rarely actually vomited, because I was given lots of drugs to control the nausea, but my goodness, did I feel sick. And I continued to do so for about a week after every round of chemo.

After chemo (and I know I say ‘chemo’ like it’s an event, but basically it’s just a couple of hours each day for three days attached to a drip) I would completely go off my food. Completely. I say that as if it’s a big deal, and anyone who knows me knows it is. I love(d?) my food. Food was an integral part of my life. For quite a while I think I was actually addicted to Mars bars, given that I couldn’t get through a day without one (or two). And let’s not get into the chips issue. But straight after chemo, I just had no interest.

After my first round of chemotherapy, I ate nothing but tinned spaghetti. It was all I fancied. After the second round of chemo, the thought of tinned spaghetti was disgusting, and all I wanted was buttered toast. After the third round of chemo, both tinned spaghetti and buttered toast were horrific thoughts. I can’t remember what I ate after that round. Mama would buy all sorts of exotic and interesting foods that normally I would devour instantly to try and tempt me into eating a bit better, but to no avail. My relationship with food just went haywire.

Thankfully, this disinterest usually only lasted about a week after each round of chemo. It was a sign that I was improving when I would eat normally again. I also went off alcohol for about a week, and when I was ready for a glass of wine with dinner again was the sign that I was pretty much over that last round of chemo. In fact, my grandfather used to call to ask not how I was, but whether or not I had had a glass of wine yet. If I had, then I was pretty much better…

Speaking of my grandfather, we had never been terribly close. He is not a terribly affectionate man, but I guess I always knew he would be there. When I got cancer, he started calling all the time, and wanted to DO something. So he and Grandma came down to help support mama, and ended up doing lots of cooking and cleaning (since Grandma absolutely cannot sit still without doing something. The first time they came down was while we were moving out of my Shoebox into the Leukaemia Foundation house. I say we, but in reality, I spent lots of time in bed sleeping while they packed up my stuff, moved it, and then cleaned the Shoebox (till it absolutely shone).

It was great to have them there… I had no energy and no interest in moving, and it was far too much work for Mama. This way, Mama had lots of support as well, and you’re never too old to need your parents… Plus, it was nice to know that just because they are not demonstrative, does not mean that they don’t love me lots and lots…

While Grandma and Grandpa were here, the Leukaemia Foundation held their World’s Greatest Shave for a Cure. I went down to the shopping centre and watched all these people shaving their heads. I had been tempted for a little while to take matters into my own hands and get rid of my hair, rather than waiting around for it to fall out, and while down at the Shave I just went for it – down to a number one. I could not sit around waiting for my hair to fall out. I needed to be in control of that, and this way, it came off when I said so, not when various drugs decided to impact.

I actually kinda liked the look at first – it was short, it was funky, it was bloody easy to look after. Trust me, I got over it.