I’m over the hump of round 4, and it’s high time for another update.
I used up all the bad luck I had left over this round (well, I hope so). I think it’s safe to say by now that lady fortune is not my biggest fan.
It started in the middle of the dip in my immune system. I had just stepped onto my longboard in good spirits to do some cardio in Zoetermeer. Sadly the dog I rode past found the board very interesting, dove into it’s hunting instinct and, after that, my calf. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s never fun to have a dog dangling from your calf, but with my defunct immune system this worried me a bit more than usual. The bite wasn’t very deep and I was able to clean and disinfect it immediately, but calling the oncologist was, naturally, a good idea.
My dad then drove me from Zoetermeer to Delft in record time where I was led to A&E. After a quick chat with my oncologist I was given a tetanus booster in my leg (good to go for the coming decade!) and a round of antibiotics to be sure. Problem solved.
Then I had a scan on the program for the 12th of March (2013). A pretty tense day, as the result of the scan was literally a life-or-death situation. I was given another combination of PET and CT like last time where I had to drink contrast fluid in the days leading up to the scan, and was also injected with the radioactive tracer and a contrast fluid.
Once again I wasn’t allowed to eat anything in the 6 hours leading up to the scan. That was no problem last time, but with my newly developed eating habits it was a little harder this time. All in all the scan went fine… until I saw a strange rash appear on my arm in the recuperation room afterwards.
I called the nurse and pointed out my slightly blotchy arms. “Oh, that does look like an allergic reaction, I’ll just call the code unit.” And within a minute or two I had two nervous doctors, a physician’s assistant, a nurse and a crash-cart next to my bed. Aside from a blotchy arm I was fine at this point. The (still worried) physician told me, however, that an allergic reaction to contrast fluid can end nastily: anaphylactic shock, closed airways, heart-attack and more such tomfoolery. After hearing that I agreed it might be a good idea to keep me there for observation and take some medication. Luckily the IV was still in my arm, ready to have a large dose of tavegil (an antihistamine) injected. Luckily it was directly followed by some saline, as a burning sensation in your veins is not very pleasant. Fearing for my poor heart I was put into my very own wheel-chair and led, like a veritable king, to A&E by my loyal entourage of medical professionals. There I was extensively examined by a very cute doctor. After an hour of laying around bored and another injection of prednisone (because, you know, I’m not on enough medication yet) I was finally allowed to go home. I did have to drop by the pharmacy first to get another antihistamine. I was really quite stoned from the injection earlier (antihistamines tend to do that) so the walk home was an interesting experience.
After I’d made it through that adventure the real exciting day was coming: the results of the scan. I’m a patient person, but when an appointment like this one runs over (and appointments in hospitals most always do) it’s unpleasant. The news turned out to be worth the wait because the scan was 100% clean. What does that mean? The lit-up spots in my armpit, in my chest and my gallbladder were nowhere to be seen. Does that mean I’m cured? No, sadly it does not. If even one mutated cell is left behind it’ll be too small to be visible on the scan, but with time it would multiply into another substantial lump. In the meantime it is the best news I could have gotten because it means I’m kicking cancer’s backside. The disappeared spot in my gallbladder can mean one of two things: either it was cancer and the chemo took care of it, or it was an infection and my own body or the antibiotics cleaned it up. After discussion with my oncologist we decided to go ahead and complete the full 8 round of chemotherapy. Because 6 weeks and an extra 5 days of nausea are worth making sure.
I guess it looks like I have run out of bad luck after all. My survivability has risen drastically, and I can finally set my sight on the future without that little voice whispering into my ear that that future may not exist. I had a big smile on my face for the rest of that day.
At the same time I realised that I still had a long way to go. My last round is the 7th of June, after which my ‘revalidation’ can start. With all of my exercise I’m hoping to limit the damage to my body as much as possible. Looking at my energy levels I’d say this is definitely successful. Whilst I can force my body to keep going when I’m tired through sheer force of will, I can feel my head get slower every round of chemo. My ability to concentrate has devolved to that of a 12 year old with ADD, and structural thinking is nearly impossible. Even reading is very hard for me now, and I have to limit myself to simple literature. It’s not uncommon for this to stay after my last round of chemotherapy, a year to a year-and-a-half are not unusual. It may just be the case that I’m back to my old self after the summer. As with everything it appears that the doctors just don’t know.
Even though this is; as far as I’m concerned; the worst side effect, I refuse to let it bother me. There is nothing I can do about it, so I just try to keep doing what I can (even if it takes a bit longer). Since I’ve whined about the negatives enough now, I’ll talk about more positive things, like how I’ve had my fourth round of chemo and how it wasn’t too bad.
I got some new medication against the nausea (domperidone) and with this it seems I have finally found the right combination of drugs. I now take emend, zofran and domperidone leading me to not having vomited even once this round. I still feel quite poorly, but as you can read I am (the Monday after my treatment) more-or-less alright. My body is screaming for meat and fruit after my weekend of feeling like a bucket full of bottoms, and after giving in to these demands I can feel myself get stronger every hour, and that feels good. Chowing down on a family pack of bacon helps with that! Hopefully the remaining four treatments will go equally well.
I can see that I’ve managed to type quite the epistle, so I think this’ll do. I’ll make an end to my anecdotal ramblings. Hopefully I’ve informed you sufficiently of my adventures in hospital-land, and instead of empty promises I’ll be more realistic and say the next update will probably come in about three weeks.