Category Archives: Consumer issues

The day after the first infusion

Some people have warned me about side effects of chemotherapy and immunotherapy hitting on the first day after treatment. Others say the second full day is worse. It’s now early afternoon on the first day and side effects so far have been nill.

I slept about an hour later than usual this morning, opening my eyes at 5:56 a.m., and I was out of bed and in the kitchen by 6.

The only obvious symptom–I felt a little light-headed. So I started with a glass of water. Ate a ripe banana delivered fresh from Kaaawa yesterday by our friend, George, who started his life in Scotland, but has worked in spots across the world in his adult life and ended up living near the end of the road up the hill above the rest of lowland Kaaawa. He was also the source of the banana plants that now populate the rear left corner of our back yard, and deliver fruit regularly.

After the banana, I moved to a serving of Kashi cereal, added some raisins from a newly-opened bag, and milk.

Then I sat down at the dining table in front of my laptop with cereal and coffee, and began the process of checking text messages and email, deleting most, and skimming through the rest. Messages from actual people gets priority, of course. Few and far between.

Then I tried a packet of a flavored hydrating powder that you dissolve in a glass of water or other liquid. I drank it, but ranked it lower on taste and texture than powdered MiraLAX, which is designed to get bowels working regularly. I’ve relied on it several times since my surgery back in May. I will give Liquid IV another chance, but right now it’s playing catchup to a laxative. At least that’s my humble opinion.

After this the day got a little more complicated. Our regular house cleaner, Ricardo Lacayo, is scheduled to arrive at 9:30. So before then I needed to move the cat paraphernalia into the front bedroom, and leaving our master bedroom and bath free to clean today. We’ll switch on his next visit in a couple of weeks, with cats in our bedroom, cleaning in front. And rounding up the cats is always exciting, and not something to leave until the very last minute.

Meda and I usually set up folding chairs and tables in the garage, creating two workspaces for our computers or iPads, phones, and space for a drink while Ricardo is here. But today I’ve decided to stay in the room with the cats, which was fine.

It’s just a bit after 1:30. Ricardo left an hour ago. I’m ready for a nap, but a friend is bringing a couple of bags of poi within the next hour, so I will defer the nap until her delivery arrives.

No new symptoms. I’ll note in a comment if anything nasty shows up.

Game on! Finishing Day 1

Yesterday’s post wrapped up just before 10 a.m. While I was writing and editing it, there were certainly things I failed to note and won’t appear here. But I’ll do my best to put the pieces together here for future reference.

The annoying beep of one of the two controller/monitors on the IV pole next to my chair sounded off, announcing that the bags holding the immunotherapy drug, Durvalumab, had emptied into my veins. Nurse Pattie quickly reappeared and said it would be followed by a 5-minute flush, then on to the next main course.

“This is Cisplatin,” Pattie explained. “It’s the mean one of the bunch.”

She added: “Your lucky you have the port. This one stings when the IV is on your arm.”

Here’s Google’s AI summary of Cisplatin, which it credits info from the National Cancer Institute.

Cisplatin is a platinum-based chemotherapy drug administered intravenously to treat advanced cancers of the bladder, ovaries, and testicles. It works by cross-linking with DNA, causing damage that prevents cancer cells from dividing and surviving.

Many oncologists also use it “off labeL” for treatment of other cancers where available evidence is ahead of FDA reviews and approvals.

I notice that the bag of Cisplatin is covered with another dark opaque bag.

“Light sensitive?” I ask.

Yes, she answers. “But I worked with it for 25 years before I knew that,” she said.

Then, with a wry smile, she pointed to the window, which was covered with a shade to only hint at the sunlight outside. “That’s the light it’s sensitive to,” gesturing toward the outside world. Then, pointing up at the fluorescent light fixtures in the room, “Not this.”

But she shrugged, implying “rules are rules,” rechecked the controller, scanned the code on the Cisplatin bag, and disappeared back to her other patients.

My notes indicate the Cisplatin was finished somewhere around 11:45, followed by another five-minute flush.

Then came the third drug–the part of the chemotherapy regimen–Gemcitabine. My notes show it was estimated to take 30 minutes. After that, there would still be two hours before the infusion was finished and I was ready to leave.

I asked Google’s Gemini how that final couple of hours is used.

When a comprehensive 5-½ hour oncology appointment is scheduled but the primary chemotherapy and immunotherapy active drug infusions wrap up before the final two hours, those final two hours are typically dedicated to a critical medical sequence focused on **safety, hydration, and acute side-effect monitoring**.

The final segment of a long infusion day generally encompasses the following protocols:

1. The Post-Medication Line Flush

Once the active treatment bags are empty, nurses do not simply remove the IV or de-access the port. A significant amount of active drug remains inside the plastic tubing of the administration set.

* **Saline/Dextrose Flush:** A clear bag of compatible fluid (usually normal saline) is run through the lines at a controlled rate. This ensures that every drop of the prescribed chemotherapy or immunotherapy is pushed completely into the bloodstream and doesn’t remain wasted in the tubing.

2. Mandatory Post-Infusion Observation Period

Immunotherapy drugs (such as monoclonal antibodies or checkpoint inhibitors) and certain heavy chemotherapy agents carry a known risk of **delayed hypersensitivity or infusion-related reactions**.

* **Reaction Window:** Even if the active drugs went in smoothly, the body’s immune system can mount a delayed reaction as the drug concentration peaks in the tissues.
* **Monitoring:** Nurses use this window to closely monitor vital signs (blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and oxygen saturation) and watch for any signs of chills, shaking, fever, skin flushing, rash, or shortness of breath. Having the patient remain in the controlled environment of the chair with active IV access allows the staff to intervene instantly with rescue medications (like IV antihistamines or steroids) if a reaction triggers.

3. Hyper-Hydration and Organ Protection

Many intensive chemotherapy regimens require a substantial volume of post-treatment intravenous fluids to protect the kidneys and bladder.

* **Flushing the Toxins:** The kidneys bear the heavy burden of filtering and excreting cellular debris and chemical byproducts as the drugs begin their work.
* **Preventing Toxicity:** Flooding the system with IV fluids over these final hours forces rapid urine production, preventing the highly concentrated medication from sitting in the bladder or damaging the renal tubules.

4. Disconnect Protocols and Home-Care Briefing

During the final stretch of the session, the clinical team prepares the patient for discharge:

* **Pre-discharge Meds:** Administering long-acting, post-infusion anti-nausea medications or giving instructions for scheduled take-home oral medications.
* **Port/Line Maintenance:** If the patient has a central line or implanted port, it is flushed with a heparin solution (if required by protocol) to prevent blood clots before being safely de-accessed or capped off.
* **Safety Education:** Reviewing the standard **48-to-72-hour home safety precautions** (such as the double-flush toilet protocol to protect family members and pets from trace hazardous waste in bodily fluids).

I reclined my chair, got my travel pillow out of my treasure bag, and took a short nap, which was finally interrupted by a signal from my bladder. I recall it being well into the wind down period, perhaps around 1 pm. I leaned forward to look around the curtain that separated me from the patient next door and the view down to the other end of the room, where nurses had their computer work stations. I called down and Pattie came quickly, commenting that this was my first visit across the hall. I recall her saying something akin to “iron bladder.”

And the last hour slipped by fast. Fluids played out, bags emptied. And then I was done.

I hadn’t used the battery that I brought along for possible device recharging. My iPhone still had about a 50% charge, iPad about the same. And my Kindle, well, the Kindle lasts through a week of reading, so this took little off of its full charge.

Next second infusion session next Monday will take less time. It might shave an hour, perhaps a bit more, out of this initial 5-1/2 hour session.

We’ll see. My next step is a brief checkup on Thursday, and a blood test Friday morning, since the lab closes at noon on July 3, and is closed July 4.

Game on!

Initial notes on my first chemotherapy/immunotherapy infusion session. Monday, June 29, 2026.

A friend picked me up at home and braved rush hour traffic to drop me outside the Kuakini Medical Plaza, a medical office building along North Kuakini Street, adjacent to Kuakini Hospital.

I arrived at the Queen’s Cancer Center on the 4th floor a few minutes early, checked-in at room 402, and after a couple of minutes was shown the way down the hall to the infusion area in room 412. Here I was greeted just outside a room where six large reclining chairs are lined up. Curtains can be pulled into place between the chairs to provide at least a bit of privacy. I was directed to the left, down to the end of the room, last chair, end of the line.

I stopped at the last chair I saw, but was then told to step around the far side of the curtain. Once I did that, I finally saw my destination.

“I put you on the end because you’re the tallest,” Nurse Patricia said. “And you’ll be here the longest,” she said, referring to today’s five-hour+ infusion session.

I took my seat. A median size television screen is mounted on the wall a little to the left, sound turned down low, just enough to hear diners and critics extolling the virtues of meals served in diners across the country, giving way now and then to programs determined to make cooking a contact sport.

Straight ahead, about six feet away, an institutional beige door to a common restroom. There’s lots of traffic, but I won’t have far to go when I have to go!

I asked the nurse if she was a “Patty” with a “y” or “Patti” with an “i”.

“Pattie with an ‘ie’ just to shake things up,” she replied. “My mother used to say that it doesn’t matter how you spell Pattie because it’s not on my birth certificate.”

Then Pattie began assemblng supplies needed to hook me up, and asked which side of my chest now hosts the IV port.

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Suddenly it’s getting real

Soon it begins.

Gemcitabine. Cisplatin. Durvalumab. Not household words. But these drugs will define the next months of my life as I begin chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments. The first two drugs are a chemotherapy mix. The last will power immunotherapy.

The drugs are given via an IV drip during infusion sessions that, I’m told, last about six hours each, one day a week for two weeks, followed by a week off, and then repeated for the foreseeable future. I was offered a choice of locations, either the main Queen’s downtown Honolulu location, or their smaller Cancer Clinic in the Kuakini Medical Plaza. To begin, I selected the smaller and less intimidating Kuakini location, a decision that can be reconsidered later.

My oncologist was upbeat when he described the treatment, saying nausea, the most frequent side effect, is usually kept under control by other drugs. And other serious side effects don’t happen very often with the particular mix of drugs I’ll be getting.

Port Insertion

To make the process easier, I’m booked to have a chest port inserted on Thursday. The procedure will be done at Queen’s Medical Center, and is expected to take about four hours from check-in to discharge.

The port provides a simple and convenient method for administering the chemotherapy and immunotherapy drug concoctions over the as-yet undetermined period of months.

Perhaps this is my chance to dig into that stack of books I keep saying I intend to read!

Now, deep breath.