On Conquering Chemo Fears
The old world of cancer treatment was more calculated, even callous; the Red-Devil-injecting nurse warned me not to move my hand—the injection site of the first chemo, which blew that vein—because one drop would burn the skin. What? It can’t touch the skin, but it goes right to the heart?
I enter the waiting room dragging emotional baggage from my 2002 cancer treatments, residual anxiety stirred up by being taken “where I do not wish to go.” In 2002, I wasn’t aware of being anxious on the first day of chemo and fainted when the nurse injected Adriamycin—the “Red Devil” as patients called it—into my veins. A moment of chaos ensued; then calm returned when the staff decided I had merely fainted, not had a heart attack. I didn’t have a port for the first treatment, so she used—and blew—a vein in my right hand. This time in 2019 I’m more aware of my fear of chemo as dormant memories resurface. I sit in solemn silence, praying and trying calm myself down. On the big screen next to me “Charlie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” is playing. Is this benign neglect or a bad joke?
When called, I will my feet to take me to the infusion chair, each plodding step a sobering reminder of the bravery required to choose life. A friendly and voluble nurse begins the process of administering the pre-chemo drugs, a long process that catches me by surprise. So, this is what people have been saying about the new agents to help the side effects! Another cheerful nurse passes out bags of pretzels as if on a holiday destination flight.
The long process of pre-chemo infusions concludes, and I tentatively settle on the realization that I’m in a new world of medical advances. The anxiety dissipates; the fear calms down. The old world of cancer treatments was more calculated, even callous; the Red-Devil-injecting nurse warned me not to move my hand because one drop would burn the skin. What? It can’t touch the skin, but it goes right to the heart? For the second chemo in 2002, I had a port put in my arm that directly transported the chemo “cocktail” of three drugs to the heart via a one-mm titanium tube to avoid blowing the veins in the arm. Patients had to put up with mouth sores, skin rashes, pain, fatigue, and debilitating nausea at home with meager remedies.
I’m thankful I don’t have to take the Red Devil this time; he is sent to where he belongs, my friend Wendy jokes. Chemo is still delivered to the heart in the same way and for the same reason, only now it’s a more humane delivery system with the new agents that fend off immediate effects. Immunosuppression still reaps its nasty harvest, but the emotional battle—the heart of the battle—is less scary, dreaded, and formidable now.
At home that night and into the next three days, I am energized by the steroids and miracle drugs to keep the nausea at bay. I keep the anti-nausea pills ready but never use them. Fatigue and nagging infections set in later, but overall, I’m thankful to live in a time when patient comfort matters more, a less barbaric, more humane time.