Thursday, April 17, 2008

Halfway There

Today I received my fourth infusion of the drug Taxol. I've had four infusions of A/C (if you don't remember what that means you can look here), and now four treatments of Taxol. I have eight more rounds of Taxol to go. I've been in chemotherapy since January 21. I go once a week, on Thursdays at 1:30.

I have a favorite nurse at the chemotherapy suite, but I don't always get to sit in his station. Today I didn't get to. I had the worst seat in the room. If we were on an airplane, my seat would have been the one right by the lavatory. My LaZBoy of Doom was right next to the entrance, my IV stand perilously close to everyone's path and there are a lot very old and sick people shuffling around.

There are 4 or 5 stations in this big room, and each has four chairs that face each other in a "pod," like group therapy. Other than the time the spouse of another patient decided to blare the TV (Awakenings was on), I've been pretty lucky. I did once refuse on my 2nd Taxol to get treatment in a station that had TV going. Daytime TV is just the worst, such a depressive habit to get into. I know. I was a habitual soap opera watcher (Guiding Light and As the World Turns). I had to quit it cold turkey, like cigarettes. I've never looked back, and I'm far more productive with these 10 hours a week than I was in front of the tube.

Anyway, today there was this OBNOXIOUS ol' guy who would not shut his mouth. He thought he was hilarious. He thought he was a hellava guy! You know, salt of the earth. He orated in booming tones about his ranch, and culling coyotes on his land, how we should turn on the TV to Oprah ("she might have her boy Obama on there"). He talked to my favorite nurse about my nurse's upcoming nuptuals. Nurse intends to take his bride on a surprise honeymoon, perhaps to the Caribbean. Cowboy advised, "Well, tell her she'll have to speak with a black accent, only with an English accent. That'll freak her out."

Oh yeah, it was like that. That sumbitch jus' had to be runnin' his mouth. It was worse when he took a phone call.

"Yuh, gettin' chemo. They givin' me mah rat poison. The rat's dead now," he shouted, and I thought, "Naw, he ain't, he's still talkin." Even through my high tech earplugs I could hear this bastard yapping. For a while he had an audience — another couple close to his and his wife's age were in the seats next to him. That was even worse. Finally, they stopped torturing him with chemo and he left, he stopped torturing me, and I dozed for over an hour, waking a little every so often to my own snores.

1 comment:

Kat said...

You're over the hump, yeah!

Can't there be a Papaw-Free Zone at the clinic? At very least, you'd think that the nice nurse could give Mr. Hee Haw some IV Benadryl. . .

love you