“Welcome to Air Infusion Flight #2. Our scheduled departure today is 8:30 a.m. from the Queen’s Cancer Clinic in room 412 of the Kuakina Medical Plaza. If you’ll just take your seat, there’s no need to fasten your seat belt. Just make yourself comfortable. We should reach our destination in only 4-1/2 hours, an hour less than on your first trip because there’s no stop today for immunotherapy.”
My first session of chemotherapy and immunotherapy on June 29 was estimated to last 5-1/2 hours. That sounded like a very long time to sit in a chair finding ways to pass the time until I realized it was about the same length of time it takes to fly from Honolulu to San Francisco. That’s a flight Meda and I took a number of times since the beginning of March while commuting to the University of California San Francisco Cancer Center for diagnosis and initial treatment. There’s a rhythm to a flight like that and, if you can get your mind into it, the time passes quickly.
Framing of my second chemotherapy session this morning as just another flight from here to there avoids having to dwell on that pesky cancer that necessitates this excursion.
I’m carrying a small travel bag with me this morning. It contains a fully-charged iPad with keyboard case, a Kindle e-reader, iPhone, battery and cable in case a device needs recharging, a couple of snacks, a medium-weight sweatshirt and a pair of nice fuzzy socks for warmth, and a travel pillow in case I want to lean back and nap. I’m also carrying my health insurance cards and driver’s license, although I probably won’t need them this morning.
I’m wearing a mask as I make my way to the treatment area, although I’ll probably take it off after that. I’m dressed for the occasion. Long khaki pants, slippers (so that it’s easy to put on those fuzzy socks), and a button-down aloha shirt so that it’s easy for Nurse Patti to reach the IV port implanted high on the right side of my chest. Although the description of its insertion was daunting, it’s a little gizmo that makes the repeated IV treatments tolerable for those who, like myself, have veins that shy away from approaching needles.
The IV feed started at 8:30, and I should be out of here shortly before 1 p.m.
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Good luck. I feel for you. I went through a similar ordeal of 7 weeks – chemotherapy and radiation. You describe my anxieties in these writings.
Still feeling the effects of the chemotherapy/radiation even after 2 years….
Collateral damage to other parts of the body cannot be helped, doctors say.
It’s good to find humor in such situations. The healing begins!
We’re with you in spirit Ian. Take care today and this weekend.
As always, Ian, your sense of humor and remarkable fearless moxie supersede the gravity of the process. You began today’s description with an analogy that made me smile…. “…no need to buckle up…” I wish you well and here’s to no pesky side effects.
Aloha
I hope that “Flight #2” was safe, smooth and produces great results.
Wow those vials are beautiful in the light.
Excellent photo, as usual.
Just now a siren provoked the neighborhood coyotes so everyone’s howling.
Hope it all went well?
All the best thoughts flowing to you! Hope the time flies by!
HaHa…thinking of it as travel is a brilliant idea since it’s about the same length of time! Provides the patient with a sense of adventure, and there is a built-in reward to stay the course until the end of the “flight!” Love that.
I’m sure you’ve done your homework, what are the real odds of longer life for someone over 80? Chemo is quite difficult chemically torturous? Hope you live to 100 after all of this.
So far, I haven’t experienced the harsh side effects of chemo that are often reported. But I’ve only been through a single cycle. Next round begins later this month. I suppose that I’ll soon find out whether this will change as I move forward.