My coworker Shem very graciously agreed to drive me to my first Chemo appointment. Even though the doctor said I should be able to drive, he didn't think I should have to go alone my first time. I respond, "That's cool. Thanks." but secretly I'm doing this ridiculous happy dance on the inside because truthfully, I'm frightened of the unknown.
We get into the car and I am anxious. I say, "SHEM! Tell me a joke!"
Shem: "I don't have any jokes. My father never allowed us to be funny."
Awkward silence.
You have to understand, Shem is one of the sweetest guys I've met her in Kosovo - and he's actually funny, just not in the "Dad joke" kind of a way. He's incredibly hard working and I feel lucky to call him a friend - and today he really was a great friend, even without the jokes.
At the hospital, we were about 30 minutes early, but the doctor saw me and waved me over. He looked at my hair and said, "Miss Nikki, not everyone loses their hair with chemo." very gently.
I said, "Well, I did."
Again, my sense of humor is completely lost and he takes me into a room down the hall. He says, "I'm sorry I made you wait (about 15 seconds), but I wanted to make sure you have a room of your own. That you don't have to share."
Understand, that prior to their independence twenty years ago, they were treated BADLY. Like, REALLY badly - so they view Americans as the Good Guys that helped them in the revolution. This pervades their attitudes to this day, and the people here are amazingly kind.
Nurse puts in the needle. First, I get a drip of antihistamine drugs. Then I get something for anti-nausea, which is good because historically I KNOW it's going to be bad. I throw up at the thought of throwing up. I can barf on queue (for real - no fingers down the throat or anything) - how I wish that were in any way a marketable skill.
Then...THE RED DEVIL. He's got this nasty red chemo dripping into my veins and my wonderful doctor starts talking about the "disagreement" between him and the American doctor. They have different strategies, but he assures me he'll do whatever I want. I'm like, *I* AM NOT GOING TO CHOOSE! Good Lord, I have had ZERO days of medical school and WAY TOO MUCH TIME on WebMD.com to make good decisions!
I start sucking on ice and popsicles. The popsicles were yummy, but they're the stick kind that you have to kind of destroy your teeth to open - and they had gotten slightly melted in the cooler on the drive to Pristina. So when I tried to open the first one, I dripped red melted popsicle on the hand with the infusion going. But I didn't move my hand because I kept kinking the tube, so I just left it there not thinking that when the nurse came in twenty seconds later and saw all the red SHE ROYALLY FREAKED OUT. (To be fair, chemo drugs will destroy your innards if they escape out of the vein, so this was an appropriate reaction) I had to pull out another popsicle and the empty wrapper before she understood I was just messy. She tutted at me, shook her head and marched back out.
The second chemo drug took an hour, and then they flushed the vein with plain saline for awhile before they unhooked me and let me go. And I am feeling......fine. Like, perfectly fine. Not tired. Not nauseous. Not anxious. Just.....fine. I know it worked because I'm peeing a lovely orange color, which provides a little whimsy to my afternoon.
I feel like I should feel bad. But I don't. At least not physically. It strikes me as I'm leaving the hospital that my N95 mask Neal sent to me for protection is better than anything any of the healthcare professionals are wearing. That hurts my heart. But I also know that NO Covid-19 patients are being treated here, and that my immune system is destroyed - and that social distancing has gone to hell at Camp Bondsteel.
I call Shem.
Shem shows up with the car in FULL HAZARD gear - he's got a mask on, he's got gloves on, he's got protective eyewear on - and I'm trying to convince myself that he's doing this out of an overprotective desire to keep me germ free. But he's acting like I'm radioactive. So we turn up the radio. It's 3:40 pm.
At 7:00 pm, six hours after chemo began, I am sitting anticipating the agony. The misery. The EVIL HOUNDS OF HELL COMING TO SUCK THE SOUL OF MY OPTIMISTIC SPIRIT. But I feel nothing. Maybe a weird taste in my mouth. But nothing yet. I start getting ready for bed.
By 9:00 pm I am growing impatient. WHERE IS THE PAIN? THE AGONY? THE HORROR? I start getting ready for bed and grab my book. Good grief, I've felt worse after donating blood. This is going to make a SUPER boring blog. So I hop into bed with a book.
………………….To be Continued
We get into the car and I am anxious. I say, "SHEM! Tell me a joke!"
Shem: "I don't have any jokes. My father never allowed us to be funny."
Awkward silence.
You have to understand, Shem is one of the sweetest guys I've met her in Kosovo - and he's actually funny, just not in the "Dad joke" kind of a way. He's incredibly hard working and I feel lucky to call him a friend - and today he really was a great friend, even without the jokes.
At the hospital, we were about 30 minutes early, but the doctor saw me and waved me over. He looked at my hair and said, "Miss Nikki, not everyone loses their hair with chemo." very gently.
I said, "Well, I did."
Again, my sense of humor is completely lost and he takes me into a room down the hall. He says, "I'm sorry I made you wait (about 15 seconds), but I wanted to make sure you have a room of your own. That you don't have to share."
Understand, that prior to their independence twenty years ago, they were treated BADLY. Like, REALLY badly - so they view Americans as the Good Guys that helped them in the revolution. This pervades their attitudes to this day, and the people here are amazingly kind.
Nurse puts in the needle. First, I get a drip of antihistamine drugs. Then I get something for anti-nausea, which is good because historically I KNOW it's going to be bad. I throw up at the thought of throwing up. I can barf on queue (for real - no fingers down the throat or anything) - how I wish that were in any way a marketable skill.
Then...THE RED DEVIL. He's got this nasty red chemo dripping into my veins and my wonderful doctor starts talking about the "disagreement" between him and the American doctor. They have different strategies, but he assures me he'll do whatever I want. I'm like, *I* AM NOT GOING TO CHOOSE! Good Lord, I have had ZERO days of medical school and WAY TOO MUCH TIME on WebMD.com to make good decisions!
I start sucking on ice and popsicles. The popsicles were yummy, but they're the stick kind that you have to kind of destroy your teeth to open - and they had gotten slightly melted in the cooler on the drive to Pristina. So when I tried to open the first one, I dripped red melted popsicle on the hand with the infusion going. But I didn't move my hand because I kept kinking the tube, so I just left it there not thinking that when the nurse came in twenty seconds later and saw all the red SHE ROYALLY FREAKED OUT. (To be fair, chemo drugs will destroy your innards if they escape out of the vein, so this was an appropriate reaction) I had to pull out another popsicle and the empty wrapper before she understood I was just messy. She tutted at me, shook her head and marched back out.
The second chemo drug took an hour, and then they flushed the vein with plain saline for awhile before they unhooked me and let me go. And I am feeling......fine. Like, perfectly fine. Not tired. Not nauseous. Not anxious. Just.....fine. I know it worked because I'm peeing a lovely orange color, which provides a little whimsy to my afternoon.
I feel like I should feel bad. But I don't. At least not physically. It strikes me as I'm leaving the hospital that my N95 mask Neal sent to me for protection is better than anything any of the healthcare professionals are wearing. That hurts my heart. But I also know that NO Covid-19 patients are being treated here, and that my immune system is destroyed - and that social distancing has gone to hell at Camp Bondsteel.
I call Shem.
Shem shows up with the car in FULL HAZARD gear - he's got a mask on, he's got gloves on, he's got protective eyewear on - and I'm trying to convince myself that he's doing this out of an overprotective desire to keep me germ free. But he's acting like I'm radioactive. So we turn up the radio. It's 3:40 pm.
At 7:00 pm, six hours after chemo began, I am sitting anticipating the agony. The misery. The EVIL HOUNDS OF HELL COMING TO SUCK THE SOUL OF MY OPTIMISTIC SPIRIT. But I feel nothing. Maybe a weird taste in my mouth. But nothing yet. I start getting ready for bed.
By 9:00 pm I am growing impatient. WHERE IS THE PAIN? THE AGONY? THE HORROR? I start getting ready for bed and grab my book. Good grief, I've felt worse after donating blood. This is going to make a SUPER boring blog. So I hop into bed with a book.
………………….To be Continued
I hope you continue to feel as good as you do today Nikki!
ReplyDeleteLovely photo and your hair is so nice. Maybe, please God! this is as bad as the chemo gets for you.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete