Chemo

I went in for round two. A little nervous and a lot determined.  I didn't know what this round would be like, I was hoping that it would be easier somehow, that it wouldn't be as destructive to my body, and that the pain would be more tolerable. Well it was. The first one was definitely one that made its presence known, but the second was more bearable. It still sucks, but I feel like all the good intentions and all the wonderful shouts of encouragement have helped me fight harder and make this chemo more effective. I learn more about this disease and the things associated with it every day. The truth is that it's hard. The hardest thing I've ever had to do, but the love is amazing. You are all amazing.

This time I went into the infusion center. I would be there for about 5 hours. I started in the front where they accessed my port. This means they put a needle in it with attached tubing. It still feels weird to have something implanted just under my skin for the sole purpose of filling me full of this poison that's going to save my life.

I was then led into the main area. It's a big room filled with recliners and people getting chemotherapy. I chose one in the far corner. It was here that they would hang several drugs so my body would accept the chemo and the 5 succeeding drugs that comprised my cocktail for the day.

They call my chemo drugs "5 FU". A well suited name. It's one of the harshest chemos to endure so I'm told. It apparently has some fantastic results, so I can handle it. I can handle the pain, feeling overheated, the persistent nausea and vomiting, the dizziness, and the exhaustion. The almost fainting spells, my dry and cracking skin, the weird taste bud reactions, my nonexistent appetite,  that cold is painful - even excruciating, these things I can handle.  But this day, they told me one of the most difficult things to digest. I am toxic. They warned my parents not to expose themselves to my bodily fluids. That if I should sweat, throw up, or have an accident, (I'm thankful that this hasn't happened) don't touch it or the clothes or sheets. Use gloves and masks. Wash everything separately. And don't touch my tears. My tears. Can you imagine being a parent and hearing that they can't wipe away their child's tears? That they have to wash their hands so they're not exposed to the poison that their child now is if they do. It oozes out of my pores. I'm filled with it. I have to be careful when I touch my dog as well. My sweet Jude that won't leave my side. No sweat, no tears, etc. Again. But I still fight.

I see how difficult this is on my incredible family. How my beautiful mother holds back her own tears and makes me promise in a shakey voice that I'm going to beat this and how much she loves me. How my father does his best to keep everyone's spirits up, makes my breakfast when I wake, and faces every day with the conviction that his baby is going to be well again. And my sweet brother who wants to be here and lets me know that he's there for me from so far away. Yet they try to hide their emotion.

So I fight harder so that one day they can wipe away my tears of happiness and success and don't have to wash their hands afterwards. I'm stubborn in the belief that this time will one day end and all of the plagues that accompany cancer and chemo will be a distant memory. That my family can love each other without fear and sorrow of this horrific curse. I fight for that day. I believe in that day. And I know that it will come.