Post-Round 2 Update

That flourescent orange is the Doxorubicin.

Hello all!

So, let’s see what has happened since my last post. Not too much, except a blood transfusion, a platelet transfusion, and some Vasovagal Syncope action (fainting) – not necessarily in that order. Over the past two weeks, things could have been much worse (remember my trip to the ER?), so I would categorize this as smooth sailing.

One question has been has been eating away at me since I fainted the day after getting out of the hospital: Just who in the hell (hell being mass media) decided that fainting should be made to look all wispy and glamorous? You know what I’m talking about? Floating to the floor like a feather, back of hand delicately pressed on forehead, just enough time to say “Someone catch me, I’m think I’m going to faint” it was not. Not having exprienced fainting before, I also thought you just kind of passed out. Oh no.

The day after my last chemo treatment, I went in for my Neulasta shot (boosts white blood count) feeling slightly under the weather, exhausted from lack of sleep, and stomach-achey. Right when the nurse stuck me with that needle I went at once hot and cold, I felt like I was going to toss my cookies (old school), and everything went black except for the contours on the faces around me, which were like multi-colored sparkles. Essentially, I was tripping out. And all I could think was, “Why am I not passing out so that all of this crazy shit goes away!?” As usual, whenever I experience something new and incredibly uncomfortable, I’m certain that I’m doomed to have it last forever – this instance was no different. Oh wait, that’s not all that I could think about. I now recall asking myself, “What the hell is that smell assaulting my nose over and over again, why won’t it stop?” It wasn’t until I could see that I realized there were about 6 people around me trying to keep me awake and that the toxic smell had a purpose. My point if there is to be one is that all of this, along with my apparent convulsing, BPM at 40, laying on the floor of the nurse’s closet with my legs up and 6 nurses/doctors standing over me..well, all of that made me feel something slightly less than glamorous. Damn you, movie makers for your false portrayals!

A week later…

Feeling 100% restored, I’ve been aching to get out of town. Unfortunately, it was at the height of my relentless complaints about being stuck in California and needing to get away for a bit (and being perfectly healthy to do so) that my doctor informed me of my low platelet count. By low, I mean 9, when the norm is 150-450 per microlitre of blood. He really shot through my plans and i was not pleased. The blood transfusion happened while in treatment the week before, but out of less dire circumstances. Because platelets help make blood clot, a significantly low platelet count – below 10 – can lead to spontaneous internal bleeding, heavy bleeding or easy bruising. Not so safe, but I seriously wanted to get out of Los Angeles. Anyhow, I took my ass over to the hospital to get the transfusion, which is nothing more than an IV bag of pale orange substance containing platelets, though I’m of the opinion that a “tranfusion” sounds infinitely more grotesque. I was given the transfusion in Westwood, so I finally got my Stan’s donut-holes (yummmy!), as my aunt and mother looked at me with discrete “I told you so” faces. Indeed, I would need to find more local ways of keeping myself in motion and sufficently occupied.

Take it to the garden, I did! I profess myself to be and am regularly called out by my friends to be a pretentious foodie, so I thought it appropriate to put my money where my mouth is. I planted a a little pot garden of tomatoes, cukes, lettuce, bell peppers, jalapenos, and herbs to get started. Just what I need for my Greek salads, the best of all salads – sorry Caesar and thank you, you lovely olive-skinned Mediterranean beauties. Someday, I’ll work my way up to a full-scale veggie garden, as I think back again to the end of Candide, “We must cultivate our garden.”

After my little fainting episode, they stuck me in a wheelchair (one that I insisted I didn’t need, they ignored). A woman came up to me to tell me that she thought I was workin’ the scarf look. I told her I thought she was workin’ the wig look. With an enormous smile, she let me know that she was battling breast cancer. Why the smile? She couldn’t have been more excited to undergo a procedure that would use fat from her stomach to reshape her breasts: cancer gone, flat tummy, larger breasts! Her friends would be so jealous, she said. I loved that. Anyways, I was looking rather pale, I’m sure, so she handed me a plum from her pack. Some people are so prepared. It was the best, most fantastically juicy plum ever. It instantly revived me, as I thought back to something my aunt L.C. told me in New York that has stuck with me since. She was taking a bite into an equally delicious orange, looked at me and said:

“This orange does not know there’s a recession. And it’s all the better, because there is.”

Simple pleasures, right?