Year: 2018

Making it Work > 2018

In the Brown Recliner

Posted on January 10, 2018January 10, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Prior to this cancer journey I didn’t pay any mind to the recliner chair. I began to see the light a few days back when I had my information session with a Cancer Centre nurse. Her job was to be sure I understood about the chemotherapy, the side effects, and the procedures at the Centre, but she actually helped me to understand the power of the recliner. Specifically the brown recliner.

What I found out:

– The name of the place that I get my chemo is called “the suite”.
– The chairs for patients are all recliners.
– The brown chairs have a massage feature in them.
– It is chilly in the suite. Blankets are recommended.
– The brown chairs heat up.
– There are less brown chairs than beige chairs.
– Wednesdays are the busiest days (this has to do with Tuesdays being the days that most of the oncologists meet with patients – which happens the day before treatment)
– Since I go on Wednesdays I may not get a brown chair.
– People can bring me food and drinks but they can’t eat or drink with me.
– TVs are all on mute. I must be able to read the closed captioning.
– There is one chair beside every beige and brown recliner … I can only have one visitor who is not eating or drinking.
– The washrooms in the suite are not for visitors.
– I cannot go to Tim Horton’s but I can go and pee with my IV pole. But not with my visitor.

What I noticed on my tour:

– There are 4 sections in the suite, each one assigned to a different nurse.
– Each section has 4 or 5 recliners. A couple of them are brown.
– There were only 6 patients in the suite, scattered in the different sections. All of them were in brown recliners. None of them were talking.
– As I walked through, each of the patients glanced at me with a knowing look.
– Chemo drip bags come through a hermetically sealed window at the far end of the suite.
– There are 2 washrooms. (For patients.)

What I determined:

No picnics. No singing. No visits from loud friends. No way I’m missing out on a brown recliner.

My first treatment is happening while I write this. And yes, I got here early, in hopes of a brown chair. Oh ya, you guessed it … I got one!

My bum is nice and warm.

What I’m Doing in the Chair Today:

Schedule for the today (week 1):

– begin with a “loading dose” of Herceptin (8ml / kg) that lasts 90 minutes (the next doses are not as big … they are called maintenance doses with 6ml/kg)
– They watch me for 1 hour. For side effects, but likely also to see what kind of patient I am … complainer? Rule breaker? Under prepared? No friends? Chatterbox? Eavesdropper?
– Then I get approx 1 hour of “pre-meds” before the taxol. They include 4 things:
1. Oral dose of anti-nausea pills that I have to remember to bring with me each week. Oh oh.
2. Benadryl (oral)
3. 15 min of Zantac drip (coats the stomach, helps with nausea)
4. 15 min Dexamethadrone drip (steroid)
– FinallyI get the nasty stuff, Taxel for 1 hour and 15 min.
– Then I get a ride home at around 2.

Extra Curriculars:

I’ve got a load of things to keep me amused. All the technology: iPhone, iPod, ipad (yes, Apple junkie). Lunch & drinks. Knitting. Journal. Book & magazine. Etchasketch.

Better get busy! Lots to do.

Port Me

Posted on January 8, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Tomorrow I am going to have my toxic drug portal installed. It will deliver all of the nasty chemicals to my cells without any fuss or muss or burning skin. Ahh. How nice! It’s called a portacath, meaning a portable catheter. It’s made up of two parts: a small disk (port) and a long tube (catheter). Hence the name.

Where does it go?

It will be inserted in my chest, just under the clavicle. Each time I go for a treatment – whether it be for the 12 doses of Paclitaxel (chemotherapy) in the first 12 weeks or the Herceptin (the targeted therapy) in the remainder of the year (18 doses) – the drugs will be delivered through the portacath. Nurses can also take blood through the portacath, even though my veins are quite charming and easy to take blood from.

Giving blood — *I think the nurse had performance anxiety. I can’t recall ever having had a drop of blood spill – or it hurting. Serves me right for taking a picture.*

How is it put in?

Usually this procedure is done in Surgical Outpatients and I would be knocked right out, requiring that a breathing tube be inserted. But as I’m obviously an early adopter, I’m having it done in the Diagnostic Imaging department instead with “twilight anesthesia” (yes, I’m the very first one). This means that I will be in a semi-conscious state. No pain, no anxiety, no need for a breathing tube, no memory of what happened. (This last part is unfortunate, because I’d really like to watch if I’m going to be semi-conscious. I have many questions.)

In fact today during my teaching session (in which someone tried to teach me…) I asked the nurse how it’s done and waxed on about my vision of the procedure. She gave me a blank look. All she said was “There are 2 incisions.” Blew apart my whole vision, in which … of course I’m going to tell you … I think that the tube is inserted first – it looks like it has to run up and over the collar bone and then down into the Superior Vena Cava. (Remember that one from Biology class? It’s the large vein that runs in to the heart.) The disk is then attached to the tube, and slid under the skin. A couple of stitches later and it’s all done. But likely that’s not how it happens. If I come out of the twilight I will let you know what I see.

Here is a professional diagram, proving that I am likely very close to being right.

How does it work?

Once it is in my chest, each week the nurse just has to poke the special needle through the skin into the top of the port and start the drip. It’s not inconvenient like a PICC line, which is inserted in the arm and has an external port that you have to look after. Apparently I can sleep on my stomach (although I’m not sure if it will be comfortable) and I can swim with it (you can’t with a PICC line). Plus it will make me look like I have an alien microchip implanted in my chest, and that’s cool.

Why Not be a Wig Maker?

Posted on January 5, 2018January 6, 2018 by pioneerintrees

Well, I’m going to lose my hair. Chemo starts next week and I’m told I have about 10 days before it falls out. So I’ve decided to be proactive. I’m going to cut off my braids, grab my glue gun and make them into a version of a wig. Not kidding.

I was inspired by Scout. On the run, she hacked off her pink tipped and therefore very obvious hair, fashioned two cute pigtails and then plopped a little black toque on her head.

Well if she can do that and still look like a million bucks, so can I. Check it out:

So on Monday I’m going to see Jenny, who has agreed to help me out. She will cut off my braids. (I realize that this could be a delicate procedure … I’ll have to secure the top somehow so it doesn’t unravel.) I’ll set them aside while she fixes up whatever is left on my head (seriously folks, it’s going to be gone in 2 weeks. Who cares??).

Then I’ll hot glue the braids to the inside of a comfie black beanie that I found laying around the house. (I’ll have the exact location of the braids marked on the beanie ahead of time, don’t you worry.) Later on I’ll sew a soft band of something over the hair, sandwiching the braids to the hat. This will help to avoid irritation from the glue and ends of hair rubbing against my bald bald head.

This is what it should look like in the end, when I plop another hat on top.

goofball — Of course I won’t have eyebrows…

So ya, that’s the plan. Handmade wig making. Why not?? FYI, a short haired wig (made with real hair) costs $1800 and long hair is around $2500. Can you believe that?? Omg. I’m going to get me a turban, plop it over my cool skull cap with braids and I’ll be good to go.