Holding on to Normal

by Alana Somerville

  I sighed. Being sick takes a lot of time and effort, I thought.

  Greg had grabbed a muffin and juice from one of the carts the volunteers were pushing around. He was starving, as usual. He wasn’t skinny because he didn’t eat, he just had a high metabolism. In fact, when he grabbed the muffin, it reminded me of when I was in labor with Charley. Greg was so hungry, he couldn’t help but wolf down a sandwich just moments after Charley was born.

  I was shaking my head at the memory when my number was called. I went up to the reception desk, and the woman standing there introduced herself as Anne Marie. She asked me to verify my name and birthdate, then asked if I wanted a tour.

  “Absolutely, but is it okay if I bring my husband?”

  “Your husband? Which one is he?”

  I pointed Greg out.

  Anne Marie walked over to where Greg was waiting. Although she’d obviously never met him before, she said, “Are we going to have to put up with you eating all the time? Is this what you’re going to be doing every time you come here? Put your food down and come with me!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Maybe that’s why I immediately took a liking to Anne Marie. I loved her sarcasm, and the fact that she could joke around with people to lighten the mood. Right away she nicknamed me, which I thought was great.

  She showed us the two rooms where people received treatments and explained that I would either sit in a chair (a comfortable-looking recliner) or lie on a stretcher, depending on my treatment. Each room had about twenty-five spaces for patients. Every chair or stretcher was full or being prepped for the next patient. Some patients had someone else sitting with them for company, and some were alone, which I found upsetting. As we walked about, it occurred to me that everyone was looking at us. I wondered why. Could they tell I had cancer? Was it my age? I swiftly realized it was the quilt. Everyone could spot newcomers because of their quilts.

  “The Taxol treatments take up to five hours, and having food is essential,” Anne Marie said, so she showed us a mini kitchen area where we could keep or warm up food, and a fridge that was stocked full of juice and snacks for patients. She also showed us the bathrooms, and a room where warm towels were kept.

  “What are those for?” I asked.

  “We use them as blankets, but also to wrap around patients’ arms before we start IVs,” Anne Marie said. “It gets the veins nice and juicy.”

  One thing was certain—I was learning a lot.

  After our tour we went back to the pharmacy. I was in for a shock when I looked at the receipt for the prescriptions. I nudged Greg and showed him. Every Neulasta injection cost approximately $2,500, and the other drugs weren’t cheap, either, though they weren’t as incredibly expensive. I needed eight injections in total of the Neulasta and did a quick calculation.

  “That’s $20,000 right there,” I said in disbelief. It had never occurred to me to find out how much the drugs would cost.

  “We’re lucky your drug plan will cover it.”

  The pharmacist overheard us and explained that there was an alternative version that the provincial health care plan would cover completely. The difference was that it meant a total of sixty-four needles instead of just eight. I breathed a sigh of relief. But I worried for those who weren’t covered.

  When we walked out of the pharmacy, me clutching the bag with those valuable drugs, a woman passing by said, “Keep your head up, girl.”

  At first I wondered if I knew her. Then I realized that once again the quilt had given me away. I hesitated, but I had to know. “Excuse me,” I asked. “Are you undergoing chemotherapy, too?”

  “I started two weeks ago,” she said.

  We chatted some more, and she added that she felt fine and hadn’t had any side effects, which was reassuring. I couldn’t stop thinking about her after we left. She was so upbeat about the whole experience. She didn’t have to say anything to me, so why had she? Perhaps she saw something in me that reminded her of herself? When she left, she told me to stay positive. Maybe she knew that in order for me to get through this, I would have to focus all my energy on doing just that.

  Doubts gnawed away at me, though. There were only four days until my treatment began. Could I do this?

  Chapter 12

  THE RED DEVIL

  Tuesday morning arrived too quickly.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready,” I said to Greg.

  “You can do this,” he replied.

  Greg was a good person to have around in these kinds of circumstances. He was okay seeing blood or any kind of medical procedure. After all, he’d been a volunteer in the fire department and had done a year in college training as a paramedic. But I wasn’t sure about myself. “It reminds me of when I went to the hospital to deliver Rudy,” I said as we got in the car. I didn’t know how to explain it better than that. Rudy had been eleven days late. I had to go to the hospital to be induced, but I felt perfectly fine. Within a few short hours of being admitted, though, I was in an excruciating amount of pain. What if this was similar? Yet I also felt weirdly upbeat—I was ready to face whatever was coming. I fiddled with the radio, then to keep busy texted some friends.

  When we arrived at JCC, a nurse weighed me. “From here, you’ll get blood work done, then meet your oncologist before your chemo. That will happen every time you come in.”

  I made a note in my notebook. I remembered we’d been told about the routine during my first visit, but it couldn’t hurt to jot it down. I’d started noting down even more things: questions I had for doctors, nurses, technicians; the numbers regarding my weight and various blood counts; even the amounts we were paying for parking and gas. We’d started saving money before my maternity leave because we knew my paychecks would be cut, but that was before my diagnosis, and things were getting tighter than anticipated because of all the unexpected expenses. I tucked the notebook away. Someone usually accompanied me to appointments, and I often got that person to take notes, since many times I was too emotional to catch everything.

  The blood work took only five minutes once we got to the lab.

  “You won’t always be in and out this quickly,” the nurse warned. “There are a lot of people waiting some days.”

  “How long can it take?”

  “Up to thirty minutes, especially if you’re here first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll have to warn whoever’s coming with me that they’ll definitely have to take the whole day off from work,” I said to Greg while we walked down the hallway. I wondered if that would make people change their minds. It was a big commitment.

  At the oncologist’s office, a woman named Leslie greeted us. “I’m the head nurse. I’ll be here most days when you’re in, so I’m sure you’ll get tired of seeing me.”

  Like everyone else, she was so friendly. Greg and I followed her to the exam room, and I whispered to him along the way, “I’m so glad I’ll have the same nurse—she’ll get to know me and how I’m doing.” I also liked the fact that she was just wearing a lab coat over regular clothes, as did most of the other doctors and nurses at JCC. This seemed less clinical than scrubs.

  We made ourselves comfortable; then Leslie asked, “Have you brought along your nausea pills?”

  I showed her my bag. “I think of it as my treasure trove—they’re so expensive.”

  She laughed. “Don’t take them yet, because we don’t know exactly what time your IV will be. Once they call you into the chemo suite, the nurse there will give you the okay.”

  “I definitely have to take them?”

  “It’s best to wait just in case.”

  Leslie ran through all of the possible side effects that could occur between treatments, including nausea, fatigue and weight loss. “Most are cumulative and could be worse next time. If any occur and become bad, we can certainly tweak your pre-meds next time to help. Most important, if you get a fever at all, you must get to the hospital right away.” She paused, letting the information sink in, then asked, “D
o you have any questions?”

  We’d heard everything before, and could only wait to see what happened. I shook my head.

  Doctor 7, my oncologist, came in just as Leslie got up to leave. She was as nice as I remembered, but businesslike. “I know Leslie has already gone over most of this. We’ll monitor your blood counts, specifically red and white blood cells, hemoglobin and leukocytes. There’s a certain range all of those should stay within.”

  I asked what the ranges were and made close notes. If I kept track of all the numbers, I thought, maybe I’ll be in control. “Logically, I know that doesn’t make sense,” I said to Greg as we left and walked to the chemo suite. “But emotionally, it makes me feel so much better.”

  When we checked in at the chemo reception, I was asked if I was going ahead with the treatment. “Sorry?” I said, entirely taken aback.

  “We ask that because the drugs aren’t mixed until you arrive and check in,” the receptionist said. “Even then, it takes a while for them to be ready.”

  “Oh.” That made sense. “Yes, I’m definitely going ahead.” I signed the form she gave me. “How long will I have to wait?”

  “Depends. Usually a half an hour, sometimes an hour if there are a lot of patients.” She handed me my number.

  Greg and I sat and waited. We waited forever. I was sure I was the youngest person there. I leaned against Greg and he put his arm around me. Most of the women wore scarves to cover their heads. Their skin looked pale, and it was clear they were well into treatment. When would I become pale? What would I look like without hair? I wondered how many of the people waiting their turn would survive. The room was quiet, so Greg and I stopped talking and simply watched as patient after patient was called in for their turn.

  After about an hour and fifteen minutes, my number was called. Greg and I stood up. I took hold of his hand. The nurse who called my number led us into the chemo suite and showed me to a lounge chair. Right away, another nurse came over and handed me a paper cup. “Here’s some juice for you to take your pre-meds with,” she said.

  I took out my medicine bag and counted out the pills—five dexamethasones and one Kytril. I swallowed them all.

  Greg watched me. “I don’t know how you can take so many at a time.”

  “If I took them one at a time, I’d need another glass of juice to get them all down.”

  I noticed the nurse had a towel, and I recalled what our tour guide, Anne Marie, had said about juicy veins during our first visit. “Could you use my right side for the IV?” I asked. “I had lymph nodes removed from my left arm.” I knew anything on my left arm, such as a needle or a blood pressure cuff, could increase the chances of lymphedema, or fluid retention.

  “Of course,” she said, and expertly wrapped my arm.

  The towel was nice and warm. “That feels great,” I said.

  “It really helps.”

  “What do you do if you can’t get good veins?”

  “We have to put in something called a PICC line or port catheter.”

  “What are those?”

  “They’re placed in either the upper part of your chest or arm so an IV can be directly inserted into the port, not through your skin. But they can’t get wet, so showering is an issue, and you have to have a nurse flush them out every so often.”

  “Not sure I’d want that,” I said.

  I watched her as she injected the IV needle. I had to—always felt it essential to watch when it came to needles. Perhaps because I was afraid I’d jump if I felt it and hadn’t seen it coming.

  “In about a half an hour, we’ll start the chemotherapy drugs,” the nurse said and left.

  With Greg’s help, I got the lounger reclined all the way back. “It’s so comfortable,” I said. “I could fall asleep.” And I could have if I hadn’t been somewhere where everyone was getting cancer treatments. Where I was going to be getting cancer drugs shortly. It was so strange. But the nurses were wonderful, stopping by and offering me a pillow and a blanket and asking if there was anything else I needed.

  “Do I look nervous?” I asked Greg.

  “You don’t,” he said with a smile.

  He had so much confidence in me. I could feel it. I shut my eyes. Then heard a voice.

  “Hi there, I’m Jane. I’m going to get you going on what we call the AC cocktail.”

  “Cocktail—that’s a rather ironic name,” I said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” she said. She turned to Greg. “Would you mind getting some ice chips from the machine around the corner?”

  “Sure.”

  “They help prevent mouth sores by keeping the blood vessels in your mouth from being affected by the medicine.”

  I pulled out my notebook and hurriedly scrawled down what she’d said. Jane saw what I was doing and had more suggestions. “Change toothbrushes every week during the course of the chemotherapy, too. Rinse your mouth frequently with salt water or baking soda in the days following chemo, and drink lots of water right after the treatment to get the medicine out of your system.”

  Greg brought back the ice chips, and I started sucking on them.

  “First up is the A part of things, or Adriamycin.” Jane held up a giant syringe filled with bright red liquid. “Also known as Red Devil.”

  “That sounds scary,” I said.

  “It’s called that because it’s hard on your veins. Normally, with most chemo drugs we just hook up the IV and come back to check on you every once in a while. But with this, we have to push it from the syringe into the IV or port, because it can cause the IV to pop out.”

  That frightened me. I was glad Greg was sitting beside me, holding my hand. “How long have you worked here?” I asked Jane as she began pushing the drug through the syringe. I was desperate to think of anything other than the drug hitting my body.

  “I’ve been at this hospital for three years, but I worked in the chemo suite at Princess Margaret Cancer Centre before that for eight years.”

  “How do most people react to AC?” I was babbling but couldn’t stop.

  “Everyone reacts differently. It’s hard to predict.”

  She was so nice to humor me. I think she realized how I was feeling. I’m sure I wasn’t the first person to be frightened.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “So far so good.” I’d expected the drug to burn or hurt somehow as Jane started injecting it, so I was happy to be able to say that. I was anxiously thinking about the side effects, though: When would they come and what would they be?

  Twenty minutes later, the syringe was empty.

  “That was okay, wasn’t it?” Jane asked.

  I nodded, took a deep breath. The C part of the cocktail, or cyclophosphamide, was still to come. It was in a bag. Jane hung that from a metal stand and connected the tube to my IV. “Oh my god, what is that feeling?” I asked, though, when the infusion started.

  “What feeling? What’s wrong?” Jane asked.

  “My sinuses. They feel weird.” I had the strangest sensation, similar to when you get water up your nose while swimming.

  “Oh, that. That’s normal. It’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you in a little bit.”

  “It’s such an odd feeling,” I said to Greg once she was gone. “I can’t shake it.” To distract myself, I checked out the people around me. They ranged in age from early twenties to at least eighty years old. Men and women alike. Cancer clearly didn’t discriminate. Many patients were sleeping. Some had company, but again, I saw some who didn’t. How could anyone send a loved one for treatment alone? The nurses often walked past and smiled, asking if everything was okay. I said yes, but that wasn’t true. I thought, This isn’t fair. It isn’t okay that I’m here. That any of us is here. But what could I do? What could any of us do?

  Before I’d thought possible, the IV bag was empty and Jane was back. When she removed the IV needle, she asked me to apply pressure to the spot where it had been. “Just for a minute to
prevent bruising.”

  I did so, then got up and began to walk around. Right away, my sinuses began to clear. “How bizarre,” I said to Greg. “I feel absolutely fine now.” I was thrilled. We still had another stop—the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions for the next round of chemo—but all in all, the whole treatment took less than an hour. “I can’t wait to sit down and cuddle the kids,” I told Greg as we made our way out.

  “How are you feeling?” He asked as we waited to pay for the drugs.

  “Like my body has been pumped full of super toxic drugs—which it has. I just want to do what the nurses said and start drinking lots of water, and then rest.” It was almost three P.M., and we’d been gone since eight A.M. It had already been an incredibly long day, and it wasn’t over yet.

  Mom was at the door when we got home, but I rushed past her. “Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom really badly.” I’d drunk at least three bottles of water in the car and the Red Devil was taking effect—the urine in the toilet was tinted red. I’d been told to expect that, but it was weird to see. I flushed, then flushed again, as instructed, to clear the toxic waste from our plumbing system. I shuddered. If the drugs I’d been given could make our house unsafe, what were they doing to my body? I put on a smile, though, as I made my way out to the family room. There was no sense stressing anyone else out.

  “How did everything go?” Mom was waiting for me, full of questions.

  “Great. I’m just a little tired,” I said. “Where are the kids?” I wanted to talk about something other than myself.

  “Napping.”

  That was a relief. I was too tired to play with them.

  “Dinner’s going to be here in a minute,” Greg said. “Gabby’s on her way.”

  “Dinner?” Mom asked.