Struggling through chemotherapy

I can’t tell you how others are going through the treatments. I can’t even say at all how you should do it. The only thing I can do to help, on a strictly non-medical basis, is to tell you what it was like to be stuck in a life burning in flames of poison and pain. Maybe I bring a smile to your face when you need it most.

By that I mean the day you are going to get the brand-new treatment, because the rest is rather the afterparty phase. For me, the forerunner, the breeze of the next treatment was like a hurricane in my face, trying to make me aware – oh yeah – you’re going to Room 101, where you will be tortured by personalized and selected methods. It wasn’t a heart-warming feeling to think about the desire to get free from the room where the walls were decorated by expressionless faces of my suffering companions. When you know well before the action that you are going to hurt, that you will be afraid of hurt, and let’s not say, God damn, you’re going to vomit back the whole set of infusion, well, this is something an average person wouldn’t pay for. It is impossible to prepare for it because you can never be sure what will happen next time. I’d say it’s just like gambling, but here you really lose all the dazzling prizes, you can only choose from the many bad ones. But it doesn’t matter, you can do it.

I always woke up on time because if I didn’t hurry there was no bed and I didn’t want to sit in a chair for six or eight hours. Of course, later, the floor next to the toilet also seemed to be perfect, but at the beginning I went there with such luxury demands. I took an anti-emetic, which never worked, but if it has to be taken, then it must be taken. Light breakfast, maybe at first, then getting lighter with time, and hop, finally I couldn’t eat anything at all. This is not an advice. You shall eat! Okay? It just wasn’t for me. I should have had a drink, but I couldn’t. Start. At first, I was very cool, went by bus. Then the car was left, of course the driver wasn’t me. Conversation barely, I found it hard to hide that I am fucked by fear and we don’t like to say out loud something like that.

Arrival and there
A quick blood test to see if I’m sexy enough from the inside for another treatment. Yeah, okay, lay down, let’s start. If we found the vein, we were happy. They are usually damage, everywhere. I loved the precious souls of my hematology assistants who were all day preparing the patients to get the infusion and they were highly professionals. One of them could pierce so good that her name was mentioned in our prayers. When my body did not take the cannula at all, the small winged needles remained. Somehow it had to be injected. The intravenous anti-emetic came. I wouldn’t say it ever helped. Already the first drops of chemotherapy were biting my arm, all the way up to my shoulders and further. Many times, I was thinking about that I could see my vasculature in front of me because I felt everything. Strange pain, unlike anything else.

I have no good ideas for the boring, hours-long lying down. You have to experience what will work for you. For me, hm, almost nothing. I had company, I had only two treatments alone, luckily, he accepted the vision of half-living myself. But you shouldn’t expect too much. Once my brother and his girlfriend accompanied me. I was hoping that they would be entertaining, distract me, and then it might not hurt so much. The rack came, carrying the two buckets of muck to fill me up. Needle inserted, then blown vein. My brother was pale, twisted his eyes, his head. White face, I sent him out. He thanked. Needle again, then blown vein again. Girlfriend was tough, she could do it. Needle again, the third vein couldn’t stand that neither. I jumped out of bed, the needle flied, and my girlfriend fell into my bed. She fainted, I laughed so much. What an escort! I sent them home. They came for me when I was done. It’s worth counting on. If you carry someone who loves you, they may not be able to watch you suffering. And yet, to be alone is not good. It is very difficult to stay positive alone, especially since, in my experience, there is no big “happy little church of positive people” during the treatments.

During the first chemo, I was thinking about reading a good book if I had that much time while that sea of disgust was dropping. Yeah, for the second time I laughed at myself for that. I didn’t read. Once I tried to watch a movie to see if it would work. Yeah, no. Nothing distracted my attention. After a while, it was no longer worth thinking about it, because I was vomiting endlessly. It would have been nice to drink water or anything to get that bad drug taste out of my mouth, but I couldn’t, just a little tea at the end when we were saying goodbye, but nothing before. I would have liked to crunch something during the many hours just to have at least something to throw up, but oh, that was a total foolishness too. So, believe in yourself, it’s not easy to be more awkward than me!

And the moment I first, you know, left myself during the treatment is unforgettable. Probably there cannot be enough years or even lives to vanish these memories. I stood up and I was immediately ordered to sit down because it wasn’t allowed to pull your little rack while trying to beetle from the ward, no way. There’s the kidney bowl. I definitely felt that I did not attend that certain princess training course what taught me that. So, I was forced to outline my concern that even the thought of it was completely ridiculous that I would strike home. I assured them that, that my vomit is like a truck approaching one hundred and twenty miles an hour and when it could reach that tiny bowl, six cleaners would disinfect the floor, the wall, and the next bed with the patient lying on it. They believed in me, and so could take my final shelter, the toilet, with dignity.

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