Here we go again. Round eight seven. Hopefully, eight seven will be a
lucky number.
Not so much on the IT front, however. Once again, the GHC
network doesn’t really want to cooperate so I’m forced to liveblog in Word with
the hope of eventually being able to paste this into the blog if and/or when I
can get on a network.
Oh look. The network has suddenly appeared. So "live" is kinda, sorta actually live -- at least for now. Anyway...
8:27 am
Various body fluids have been sampled, and I'm checked in for the meeting with my primary oncologist. Just waiting for the lab results and, quite likely, the providers to appear. (As usual, traffic in Seattle is a problem and I've already overheard staff here talking about the staff who are late due to traffic issues.)
8:35 am
Now I'm in the exam room waiting on the doc, who is no doubt still waiting on labs. But I did see her walk in so at least traffic won't be an issue. This time my weight was 224, which, if I recall correctly, means I've lost two pounds since my last visit. Clearly, wasting away will not be one of the side effects of my chemotherapy.
9:00 am
Crap! The oncologist just informed me that I can't count. This is only Cycle 7. I've got at least four more after this, not three. I am now totally bummed -- both by the extra cycle I didn't think I had, and by the fact that I'm clearly mentally challenged. The last liveblog even said Cycle 6, so how did I manage to convince myself this was number eight?
Oh, and the oncologist also confirmed the long-term plan: complete twelve (or eleven -- eleven was okay) cycles of chemo, go off chemo for (with luck!) six months, then start the chemo back up when the cancer starts growing again.
That is not a good plan. I want a different plan.
9:28 am
Still waiting on the pharmacy to mix my drugs. But all the psychosomatic symptoms are starting up. At this rate, they won't actually have to give me the drugs to make me feel terrible. My brain will handle that all on its own.
9:52 am
The drugs -- well, the first drug -- has arrived. We're off to the races.
10:21 am
"Races" is the wrong word, unless you're talking slug races. I already feel terrible and slow.
10:35 am
Chemo drugs have started. Two hours for these -- and this time both seem to be dripping at the same slow pace. Ready to be at home in bed. Even without the chemo, this would be a good day to spend in bed -- rainy and disgusting. This, by the way, is the view from my chemo chair:
9:00 am
Crap! The oncologist just informed me that I can't count. This is only Cycle 7. I've got at least four more after this, not three. I am now totally bummed -- both by the extra cycle I didn't think I had, and by the fact that I'm clearly mentally challenged. The last liveblog even said Cycle 6, so how did I manage to convince myself this was number eight?
Oh, and the oncologist also confirmed the long-term plan: complete twelve (or eleven -- eleven was okay) cycles of chemo, go off chemo for (with luck!) six months, then start the chemo back up when the cancer starts growing again.
That is not a good plan. I want a different plan.
9:28 am
Still waiting on the pharmacy to mix my drugs. But all the psychosomatic symptoms are starting up. At this rate, they won't actually have to give me the drugs to make me feel terrible. My brain will handle that all on its own.
9:52 am
The drugs -- well, the first drug -- has arrived. We're off to the races.
10:21 am
"Races" is the wrong word, unless you're talking slug races. I already feel terrible and slow.
10:35 am
Chemo drugs have started. Two hours for these -- and this time both seem to be dripping at the same slow pace. Ready to be at home in bed. Even without the chemo, this would be a good day to spend in bed -- rainy and disgusting. This, by the way, is the view from my chemo chair:
The raindrops on the window may or may not be showing clearly, but in real life there's a lot of them.
11:18 am
Nothing new to report at this time.
11:24 am
I've just learned that I'm too big for the chemotherapy chair. The chair is like a manual dentist chair or recliner. Lean back, and the bottom of the chair rises up to support your legs -- at least in theory. My legs are so long that the weight of them throws off all the counterbalancing so there's no way to actually lie back in the chair. It's sort of annoying.
Update: I found a workaround. If I lean back so the bottom of the chair comes up, and then pull another chair under the bottom of the leg support so it can't drop back down, I can recline. Of course getting out of the chair with another chair wedged under it may be somewhat challenging. Here's hoping there are no earthquakes, fires, random shooters, or other emergencies that would require a quick exit from this chair.
12:37 pm
Tired and miserable, but basically done. Nurse is hooking up the pump, and then I'm off to go home and go to bed. Chemotherapy sucks, and this liveblog is over.
Nothing new to report at this time.
11:24 am
I've just learned that I'm too big for the chemotherapy chair. The chair is like a manual dentist chair or recliner. Lean back, and the bottom of the chair rises up to support your legs -- at least in theory. My legs are so long that the weight of them throws off all the counterbalancing so there's no way to actually lie back in the chair. It's sort of annoying.
Update: I found a workaround. If I lean back so the bottom of the chair comes up, and then pull another chair under the bottom of the leg support so it can't drop back down, I can recline. Of course getting out of the chair with another chair wedged under it may be somewhat challenging. Here's hoping there are no earthquakes, fires, random shooters, or other emergencies that would require a quick exit from this chair.
12:37 pm
Tired and miserable, but basically done. Nurse is hooking up the pump, and then I'm off to go home and go to bed. Chemotherapy sucks, and this liveblog is over.
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