As you step out of the elevator on the second floor of the medical center, you enter an open waiting area for the lab with the check-in desk immediately ahead of you. You walk forward and turn to the left through a wide doorway and there is another, larger waiting room with a desk where three administrators sit behind plexiglass and computer screens waiting to take your name and the reason for your visit. There is a large insignia on the wall above the desk, “Infusion Suite,” with a hallway on the left-hand side that leads to that place where the nurses administer various infusion therapies. Until my first chemo injection on 19 November, I had only watched other patients make their way down that hallway when their names were called and wondered what it was like. There were elderly men and women in wheelchairs. Others rose slowly from their chairs, leaning on a cane for support. Some women wore turbans or scarves to cover their bare scalps. Most appeared to be older than I, but there were some younger as well.
On the day of my first treatment when my name was called, I walked into the hallway where Amber, my nurse for this visit, greeted me and escorted me down the hall. At the end of the hall, we turned to the left into an open room, rectangular in shape, with windows along two sides. Vinyl recliners lined the exterior walls, spaced six feet apart in keeping with pandemic recommendations, and there were two rows of recliners sitting back to back and appropriately spaced down the middle of the room as well. Patients sat in several of the recliners, tubes attached to their arms or hands extending up to the IV poles next to their chairs.
“You can choose where you’d like to sit today. There are a lot of open chairs.” Amber smiled as she motioned for me to find a recliner. I chose one along the back of the room where I could see everyone already there and anyone who came in after me. The vinyl recliner felt cold as I sat down and Amber explained what she was going to do.
“We’re going to do an IV today for your Zometa. This is a medication that helps keep your calcium levels where they need to be and it also helps strengthen your bones. It will take about 30 minutes and we’ll do it once a month.”
She then inserted the IV into my arm and started the drip, explaining that once it was finished, she would give me an injection of Velcade (bortezomib), one of my chemotherapy drugs, and I would be good to go.
As the IV dripped slowly into the tube in my arm, I glanced around the room at the patients sharing the experience. To my right was a hearing-impaired woman, the only patient with a companion who chatted with her as she received her treatment. In one of the recliners sitting in the row in the middle of the room was a man in his late 50’s reading a book. Another woman on the other side of the room sat with her ankles crossed, playing a game on a tablet. All of the patients appeared to be my age or older with one very stark exception. Sitting in a recliner catty-corner to mine was a young woman with dark hair who was probably no older than her mid-20’s. My heart went out to all of them but especially to the young woman. I wondered what kind of cancer she had, how many times she had visited the infusion suite, and what her prognosis was. Good, I hoped.
When the IV drip was done, the monitor began to beep to let the nurse know it was time to unhook me. Amber came promptly and gently removed the IV from my arm.
“Now I’m going to give you your injection. This will need to go into either your belly or the back of your arm. Most people seem to do better with the belly,” she explained.
“Why in the belly or arm?” I asked and detected the slightest flash of embarrassment on her face as she said, “Because it needs to go into fat.” She explained that the shot was given in a fatty area because it needed to be absorbed slowly. The needle was tiny, so it shouldn’t be too painful, but it would leave a red spot an inch or so around. She inserted the little needle and slowly began to squeeze the contents of the syringe under my skin. I felt a slight sting, uncomfortable but not particularly painful. Amber asked if I had taken my Decadron (dexamethasone) pill and reminded me that I would need to take one the day of and the day after every Velcade injection.
I felt thankful and relieved. This was definitely not my mother’s chemo and a far cry from the unpleasant stuff others had to endure.
The other part of my chemotherapy is a drug called Revlimid (lenalidomide). It is an immune-modulating therapy that, according to the website (1) helps your immune system recognize and destroy myeloma cells and helps prevent new myeloma cell growth by starving them of blood. The first prescription was delivered to my home last Saturday, and I began taking it that day. I will take one pill every day for 14 days, take a seven-day break, and then start the cycle again after 21 days. The cycle can be repeated up to eight times, but hopefully, I won’t need that many before I attain remission.
So far, other than feeling weak and tired, I haven’t had any nasty reactions. My doctor and nurses tell me I shouldn’t lose my hair, but I’ve been told to expect otherwise by a multiple myeloma patient who has been through the identical treatment regimen that I am undergoing, so we shall see.
In any case, on my next doctor visit, I plan to ask about alternative and experimental treatments that might be available so I can read up on them. I’ve never cared for the idea of introducing potentially destructive elements into my body, regardless of how well-tolerated they may be. Even as we have advanced in our treatment of disease, I believe the adage, “The cure is worse than the disease” certainly holds true with many conventional cancer treatments.
Reference
Kelly, Always a bit heavy hearted to hear of a friend going through this but knowing your faith is strong I believe that even in the low spots He will give you the strength to face this battle. It seems as if that has already occurred.