Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop

Mixed feelings today. Excited to finally be attacking this bastard tumor. Anxious about the experience.

The injection clinic is nothing like I imagined. I had conjured up an image of a serene, quiet and low-lit (if sterile and institutional) room with rows of patients in recliners. Some reading, some resting, others on their phones or laptops.

Hah. How about a big kind-of-noisy clinic with rows of nurses stations and patients in hospital-like rooms or curtained off spaces. I get a room that feels like every Kaiser doctor’s office I have ever been in, except for the red $5,000 recliner in the corner, pillows, and a chemo IV machine.

Lisa is my nurse and I get almost all of her attention for the morning. She went into oncology nursing after watching her father deal with cancer nearly 30 years ago and realizing it was something she could handle. She explains everything in excruciating detail; another information bomb, but today it’s especially useful because it allows me to set my expectations for what is to come.

Here is the anti-nausea medicine for today.
This is the first drug you’ll be taking.
Have you picked all your prescriptions?
Let’s talk about nausea and diarrhea.
The cold sensitivity sometimes starts right away.
How do you feel about cannabis? Sativa can help a lot with nausea. It’s stupid that it’s still stigmatized; Big Pharma and the feds are the problem.
Here is the what the pump that you will be taking home looks like. You get a fanny pack that looks like it came from a dollar store.
We had a guy once almost rip out his pump from his chemo port because he went to play basketball. Don’t do that.
OK, let’s start the second medicine. If you start to feel flushed or have a grumbly stomach, summon Zabeda immediately and we’ll give you atropine. (I did, and they did.)
Here’s the deal with your platelets and neutrophils. If they get too low, we’ll need to skip a cycle until you recover.
You might not lose much hair. Don’t shave your head just yet.
Do you want a granola bar? We have four kinds.

Bridgette comes in with good news. Instead of giving myself five white blood cell shots each cycle, they will give me one “super shot” when I get my pump disconnected. Praise be. She got permission to do this because I mentioned at one point not liking needles. In fact, Bridgette has put the whole nursing staff on alert that I hate needles. An overreaction, but they are all gentle with me now.

Also good: Lisa tells me that I can come in to get the pump disconnected whenever it runs dry. No need to wait two full days.

The chemo port makes sense now. It’s painless and less squeamy (new word) than an IV in the arm. Still weird to have a lump in my chest and a catheter going to my heart.

Biggest takeaway today: The wifi here sucks.

{Title from Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland]