I had no idea what to expect after my first round of chemo - my doctor and nurses explained all the possible side effects, which differ from patient to patient - but I never would have imagined everything I would go through over the next few weeks. In hindsight, I'm glad I didn't know.
I returned to work the following day after my first infusion, trying to continue my regularly-scheduled life despite my fatigue and discomfort, and told my coworkers, some of whom I hadn't seen during the college's three-month summer break, about my diagnosis and treatment plan. I asked for their patience and flexibility and promised I would be there as much as I could, letting them know in advance if I needed to take medical leave. They responded with hugs, questions, and encouraging words, for which I was grateful. Afterwards, I felt drained but relieved. I'd wanted to tell them myself, in my own way, to avoid miscommunication and rampant speculation.
I felt worse in the days after treatment, weaker and uncomfortably constipated. The nurse who came to my home to unhook the chemo pump that was connected for 46 hours advised me to try a laxative, which helped slightly. But not long term. My discomfort increased and my abdomen bloated and swelled, making me look and feel pregnant, as my appetite faded and nausea advanced. I took the anti-nausea pill my oncologist had prescribed and struggled through a day and a half at work before I left early after lying on the floor, managing to consume nothing more than an Ensure during my 30-minute lunch break, then gagging, dry-heaving, and spitting into an office garbage can. I went home and napped briefly, but I couldn't get comfortable, couldn't eat, and couldn't sleep that night.
The next morning I threw up the Jell-O and juice I'd tried to eat for breakfast and packed an overnight bag with essentials before carefully driving myself to my oncologist's office for a scheduled check-up. I knew I would probably be going to the hospital at least overnight. A Food Network baking show was playing on the waiting-room TV, worsening my nausea, before I went in for blood work, a vitals check, and a visit with a nurse practitioner. I told the medical staff the truth: that I was weak, maybe dehydrated, nauseous, constipated, and severely bloated. In response they gave me fluids in the infusion room and wheeled me into the adjacent hospital for an abdominal X-ray.
Afterwards, my oncologist appeared and delivered her verdict. She was having me admitted to a larger nearby hospital, one with colorectal surgical specialists, for a consultation. The result would probably be an enema and possibly surgery to relieve my bowel obstruction. Unfortunately, that didn't include an ambulance ride, so I had to find alternate transportation. I managed to drive to my boyfriend's house, about 30 minutes from the cancer center, and asked him to take me the rest of the way, another 20 miles from there. Fortunately, he was working from home that day, so he was able to drop everything to rush me to the hospital's emergency room, where we sat for an uncomfortable hour before my name was called and I was taken back to a private room with a bed and bathroom.
A male nurse, whom I will love forever, offered me morphine, which I gratefully accepted. The dose relaxed me enough to doze off into a desperately-sought peaceful abyss, while I waited hours for a CT scan. (Hospital time, I learned, is loose and mercurial. A fifteen-minute wait can stretch into an hour or more). But I was one of the luckier patients. When I was finally wheeled into radiology for my scan, I passed numerous less-fortunate patients who were parked on beds in the hallway, without privacy or comfort. I don't know why I was given more comfortable digs (my comprehensive health insurance, I suppose?), for which I was sheepishly thankful. No doubt I would have preferred to stay in that private ER sanctuary instead of being moved to a shared room upstairs several hours later. I had a roommate who required frequent medical assistance, including every time she used the toilet, and ran her TV all night, starting with Law and Order and continuing through the late-night talk shows and Three Stooges DVD infomercials, while I laid awake, unable to block out the noise.
And even if and when I was able to briefly doze, the nurses insisted on waking me for vitals checks every couple hours. A couple times I was startled awake when a nurse came in, flicked on the lights, and stood over me, shouting my name until I woke. Nothing relaxing about that room during my stay. So when I was moved to a private room the next afternoon, I was thrilled.
I was less enthusiastic about the nasogastric tube that was painfully inserted down my nose and throat to clear out the accumulated gunk. I couldn't eat or drink anything more than ice chips in a styrofoam cup. Which, of course, is when my appetite returned with a vengeance. I thought of all the food in my fridge at home, food that had been unappealing before like a tuna sub and a cheese calzone. Lying in that hospital bed, hearing other patients' meal menus, there was nothing that didn't sound appetizing to me. It was a long weekend, waiting for surgery - a temporary colostomy, my worst-case scenario, to relieve the bowel blockage - and food, and fearfully pondering all the changes ahead of me.
