What's Left of Me
Page 20
“There you go, honey. I gave you something for nausea. That should help.”
I try to say thank you, but the heaving won’t stop.
Normally the getting sick part doesn’t happen until that night or the next day. Why it’s happening now, I have no clue. Maybe it’s the higher dosage of drugs. Maybe it’s my nerves kicking in. I’m not sure.
After a short while, I stop throwing up just in time for Genna to show up.
“How are you doing?” She sits in the chair next to me, pulling out some crackers and apple juice and handing them to me.
Well, let’s see! I have tubes going into my body that are hooked up to a machine pumping toxins into me to kill off cells, all while being completely nauseated. Yup, I’m fantastic. Pull out the tea and cookies. Let’s have a party!
“I’ve had better days.”
“I’m sorry. The nurse said you threw up already?”
“Yeah, I think it was just because I didn’t have breakfast.”
Even though I’ve been through this before, a part of me can’t help but be scared. It’s the unknown. I don’t know what to expect this time. My oncologist, Dr. Olson, has tried to prepare me for this round of chemo, explaining that because it’s a higher dose I’ll be sicker than I’ve been before. The good news—yes, there’s good news in all of this—is it should only last a week; maybe a little over. Then I’ll feel fine until my next round. So, basically, I’ll have chemo, be sick for a week, have a week of feeling okay, and then have chemo again. Oh, and that’s all if it goes according to Dr. Olson’s plan.
After just over three hours, I finally leave the clinic. The nurse sends me home with a few puke bags. I wish there was a better word for puking than vomiting or throwing up. Nothing sounds good. But, then again, it’s not supposed to. It’s an ugly word to describe a disgusting action.
I'm given another Zofran and a prescription for it before I go home. It’s an anti-nausea medication that dissolves under my tongue, but it’s not working.
I throw up the entire drive home. Genna offers comforting words while rubbing circles on my arm. Normally, having someone touch me while I’m sick is annoying, but in this case I don’t mind.
Jason meets us outside when Genna pulls in. I’m guessing she called him at some point, and he decided to leave work. He opens my door and helps me out of the car with one arm around my waist. His other hand holds a larger bucket for me as I slowly walk into the house, stopping once to dry heave. My head is spinning and my abdominal muscles hurt badly from being clenched so tightly.
After Jason helps me onto the couch, Genna comes over with a large water bottle and soda crackers. I know I need to eat and drink something. The worst feeling is dry heaving. No one likes it. Hell, no one likes being sick either. And nothing is worse than being sick where nothing comes out except for nasty green stomach acid.
The rest of the day and evening pass by slowly. I throw up every fifteen minutes, or at least it feels like it. Genna keeps wiping my face with a cold washcloth, and Jason refills my ice water when needed. Neither leave my side all night. When I’m puking my guts out, someone is right there rubbing my back. When I get a side ache or neck cramp from being curled in the fetal position, one of them is right there rubbing the ache away.
I hate people taking care of me.
I hate feeling helpless.
I hate feeling lifeless.
But right now, I’m more than grateful for these two. And, as much as my muscles ache, and as exhausted as I am …
I refuse to give in.
I refuse to back down.
I refuse to submit.
I refuse to cry.
Chapter Six
I haven’t paid attention to what day it is or to the activities happening around me. I’ve simply concentrated on trying to keep food and liquids down and make it through to the next hour, all while not leaving the comfy bed that has become my home the last few days. There are times I have just prayed to fall back asleep so that I won’t have to feel the muscle cramps any longer.
Jason went to work the day following my treatment despite staying up all night with Genna taking care of me. He acted as if only getting two hours of sleep was nothing, and didn’t complain once about sleep deprivation.
Genna hasn’t left my side, catering to my every need. She brings me ice chips or water, food when it sounds appetizing, and even reads to me when I don’t have the energy to hold a book or my Kindle any longer. When I suggest getting me a bell to ring when I need her, she responds by rolling her eyes. I, on the other hand, think it is a reasonable request, mainly to have some entertainment.
Everything that Dr. Olson told me I would feel following my first chemo treatment is true: nausea, headaches, fatigue, sore throat, and no appetite. But what she didn’t prepare me for were the mouth sores. It’s funny how one ache goes away, just to be replaced with others.
I’ve had small mouth sores in the past, but never to this extent. Three days after chemo, I can barely open my mouth. My gums, the insides of my cheeks, and even the roof of my mouth are filled with open canker sores. I can barely speak, let alone eat or drink anything. When I try, I can feel the sores stretching and burning, causing tears to fill my eyes. Genna suggests I try sucking on ice cubes to help my mouth from getting too dry, and that seems to help.
Jason tries telling me about a home remedy of salt water and gurgling to make them disappear, but when was the last time he had nine canker sores in his mouth at one time? Salt water may be okay when it’s just one, but nine? I don’t think so.
I try to say thank you, but the heaving won’t stop.
Normally the getting sick part doesn’t happen until that night or the next day. Why it’s happening now, I have no clue. Maybe it’s the higher dosage of drugs. Maybe it’s my nerves kicking in. I’m not sure.
After a short while, I stop throwing up just in time for Genna to show up.
“How are you doing?” She sits in the chair next to me, pulling out some crackers and apple juice and handing them to me.
Well, let’s see! I have tubes going into my body that are hooked up to a machine pumping toxins into me to kill off cells, all while being completely nauseated. Yup, I’m fantastic. Pull out the tea and cookies. Let’s have a party!
“I’ve had better days.”
“I’m sorry. The nurse said you threw up already?”
“Yeah, I think it was just because I didn’t have breakfast.”
Even though I’ve been through this before, a part of me can’t help but be scared. It’s the unknown. I don’t know what to expect this time. My oncologist, Dr. Olson, has tried to prepare me for this round of chemo, explaining that because it’s a higher dose I’ll be sicker than I’ve been before. The good news—yes, there’s good news in all of this—is it should only last a week; maybe a little over. Then I’ll feel fine until my next round. So, basically, I’ll have chemo, be sick for a week, have a week of feeling okay, and then have chemo again. Oh, and that’s all if it goes according to Dr. Olson’s plan.
After just over three hours, I finally leave the clinic. The nurse sends me home with a few puke bags. I wish there was a better word for puking than vomiting or throwing up. Nothing sounds good. But, then again, it’s not supposed to. It’s an ugly word to describe a disgusting action.
I'm given another Zofran and a prescription for it before I go home. It’s an anti-nausea medication that dissolves under my tongue, but it’s not working.
I throw up the entire drive home. Genna offers comforting words while rubbing circles on my arm. Normally, having someone touch me while I’m sick is annoying, but in this case I don’t mind.
Jason meets us outside when Genna pulls in. I’m guessing she called him at some point, and he decided to leave work. He opens my door and helps me out of the car with one arm around my waist. His other hand holds a larger bucket for me as I slowly walk into the house, stopping once to dry heave. My head is spinning and my abdominal muscles hurt badly from being clenched so tightly.
After Jason helps me onto the couch, Genna comes over with a large water bottle and soda crackers. I know I need to eat and drink something. The worst feeling is dry heaving. No one likes it. Hell, no one likes being sick either. And nothing is worse than being sick where nothing comes out except for nasty green stomach acid.
The rest of the day and evening pass by slowly. I throw up every fifteen minutes, or at least it feels like it. Genna keeps wiping my face with a cold washcloth, and Jason refills my ice water when needed. Neither leave my side all night. When I’m puking my guts out, someone is right there rubbing my back. When I get a side ache or neck cramp from being curled in the fetal position, one of them is right there rubbing the ache away.
I hate people taking care of me.
I hate feeling helpless.
I hate feeling lifeless.
But right now, I’m more than grateful for these two. And, as much as my muscles ache, and as exhausted as I am …
I refuse to give in.
I refuse to back down.
I refuse to submit.
I refuse to cry.
Chapter Six
I haven’t paid attention to what day it is or to the activities happening around me. I’ve simply concentrated on trying to keep food and liquids down and make it through to the next hour, all while not leaving the comfy bed that has become my home the last few days. There are times I have just prayed to fall back asleep so that I won’t have to feel the muscle cramps any longer.
Jason went to work the day following my treatment despite staying up all night with Genna taking care of me. He acted as if only getting two hours of sleep was nothing, and didn’t complain once about sleep deprivation.
Genna hasn’t left my side, catering to my every need. She brings me ice chips or water, food when it sounds appetizing, and even reads to me when I don’t have the energy to hold a book or my Kindle any longer. When I suggest getting me a bell to ring when I need her, she responds by rolling her eyes. I, on the other hand, think it is a reasonable request, mainly to have some entertainment.
Everything that Dr. Olson told me I would feel following my first chemo treatment is true: nausea, headaches, fatigue, sore throat, and no appetite. But what she didn’t prepare me for were the mouth sores. It’s funny how one ache goes away, just to be replaced with others.
I’ve had small mouth sores in the past, but never to this extent. Three days after chemo, I can barely open my mouth. My gums, the insides of my cheeks, and even the roof of my mouth are filled with open canker sores. I can barely speak, let alone eat or drink anything. When I try, I can feel the sores stretching and burning, causing tears to fill my eyes. Genna suggests I try sucking on ice cubes to help my mouth from getting too dry, and that seems to help.
Jason tries telling me about a home remedy of salt water and gurgling to make them disappear, but when was the last time he had nine canker sores in his mouth at one time? Salt water may be okay when it’s just one, but nine? I don’t think so.
