reality tricklez

Disclaimer: this blog post contains a bagful of reality - proceed with caution

So it’s to be this again - ups, downs, ups, downs.

One week ago, I had my first treatment of the new regimen - Alimta. I was anxious to get started because I had been experiencing The Symptom. My initial diagnosis in 2008 led from a routine exam, no symptoms. My recurrence was discovered in 2010 during routine follow-up, no symptoms. But now in 2011, I had been having The Symptom: I was having trouble peeing.

I had always thought of myself as one of the great pee-ers. Chromosomally, no, I was never able to write my name in the snow. But I could rival a fire hose in PSI. Enter The Symptom. Suddenly, no matter how bad I had to pee, no matter how many cc’s of fluid were building up in my bladder, it would only come out in a trickle. Like a faucet you can’t quite turn off all the way. And only a little at a time. It started gradually, only happening if I didn’t drink enough that day. Then it got to be where I was having to go every X minutes - sometimes 10, sometimes 30, sometimes 60 - but with regularity, I was making the trip down the hallway with what I was sure would be a giant man-sized piss only to trickle a teaspoon. This was getting annoying.

My advanced degree in biology had led me to the following possible diagnosis:
The lymph nodes around my bladder that had been getting active were making it difficult for my bladder to expand or contract, thus making me feel urgency while not being able to really empty what was in there.

Dr B confirmed this as a possibility and prescribed some pills that made me pee the color of Cheetos, but had no real benefit otherwise.

In the midst of The Symptom, I was beginning my new treatment. When the appointment was made, it was to be a follow-up with only a possible infusion. But then the treatment was approved and the machine started turning. Coggy little me shows up when I’m told and lifts my sleeve when I’m told and sits where I’m told and “yes, go ahead, poison me, I welcome your torture” as I’m told.

I didn’t know what to expect, but based on my past chemo experiences, I made sure to bring enough activities with me to keep me occupied for at least 3-5 hours. They accessed my port at 9:55. There was a little wait while they ran my blood work, then I got brought into the infusion room for some pre-meds and fluids. And then the chemo. Which took - get this - a whole TEN MINUTES!!! TEN!!! 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I thought surely they must be kidding, but no! By 11:30, they had sent me on my way. From 10 hours to 10 minutes. Not complaining!

Now I had simply to wait and see what new side effects I would experience. What were the possibilities? Crippling fatigue! Nausea! GI issues!

GI issues.
Woo.
Frigging.
Hoo.

When the GI issues kicked in, I become despondent. Defeated. Without going into detail, let’s just say that I have spent more than a day being as uncomfortable as I can imagine a person being without having a bleeding festering wound in their gut and a rusty spike through their abdomen. I spent much of my time crying and/or whining, which is so much fun for The Tall Man to have to deal with. I took a few hot baths and became very friendly with my hot-sock. But between the meds I have to take and the general intestinal issues I have dealt with ever since radiation over two years ago, I was feeling as if my midsection was filled with ever-expanding cement.

And on top of that, The Symptom was there. The peeing wasn’t getting any better. Sometimes it was much worse. There was the one night that I had to RUN to pee every 10 minutes for three hours or so (tho just a teaspoon at a time). And then, there was the night I didn’t sleep because during a moment of dozing I had a dream of peeing in a hot-tub and for the rest of the night I was afraid that if I fell asleep I would pee in the bed. And wouldn’t that be lovely.

In addition to all this bio-evacuation, Jeff was battling a sinus infection and I was doing what I could to make sure that my little head cold didn’t blow up into that 100.5° temperature that equals a trip to the emergency room. So let’s just say our weekend was not exactly fun.

The GI issues were beginning to ease up, but The Symptom was still there, bothering me. I felt jealous of anyone that could pee with ferocity, which in the limited scope of my Virginia social life amounted to The Tall Man or the anonymous woman in the next stall of the public restroom.

By Monday, I had pretty much had enough. I called my doctor and explained - it isn’t that it hurts, it’s that I can’t pee right. She had me come in right away for..... (wait for it)..... a Foley Catheter. Which I learned was a darn good thing because while they were inserting it, they discovered that I had an obstruction. What kind of obstruction? We aren’t sure. Could it be the growth between my cervix and bladder was pressing on my urethra? Perhaps. Could it be a chunk of the afore-mentioned ever-expanding concrete? Probably not. The point is not the nature of the obstruction, but that the obstruction exists. And now, through the magic of the rubber hose, I am able to pee again, in a manner of speaking.

For now, this means that I'm using a whole lot less Charmin and the 2000 Flushes gets really blue in between my uses. And it means that if I want to drive across country from Texas to Cape Canaveral to stalk my astronaut boyfriend and his slut new girlfriend, I'm all set. But it also means that I've reached a level of medical involvement that I hoped I never would.

With a Canary Letter on my chest.