It's in the bag.

I forgot to mention one funny incident the night before I was to have my port surgically implanted.

Since chemo can weaken the heart, the doctors wanted to take the precaution of checking out the current status of my ticker via a heart echocardiogram. Thankfully, it’s not an invasive procedure, but basically an opportunity for me to flash the technician as they perform an ultrasound on my heart.

I had just moved upstairs to the fourth floor and I’m getting settled in, sitting in the dark, watching DVDs on my computer, when I hear a knock on my door. It’s just before 10 pm and I’m surprised at what I see: a woman is entering the room with a large ultrasound machine and she says: “I just came from the IMCU and they said you moved up here.” She rearranges the things around my bed so she can fit the contraption and mentions: “I received the doctor’s order early this afternoon, but I’ve been in the ER all afternoon and evening, so this my chance to finally get you in.”

I arrange myself on the bed so that she can do the ultrasound of my heart. She busies herself by applying the lovely goo that all ultrasound technicians favor to my sternum and begins to use the probe to take pictures. She moves around a bit and pauses. I think I know what’s coming next, but I’m a bit sheepish to say.

I begin: “did they mention that I have a large lung mass in front of my heart?”

“Oh thank goodness, I was wondering why I couldn’t find your heart,” she says immediately after. “Well, you are kinda bony, so we will just have to find other ways to take pictures.”

“Bony?”

“I usually do this test on the elderly that have a bit more flesh and flab and can work it around to get the pictures I need, in this case...we’ll have to do some angle shots.”

As she works to get images and sound bytes of my heart, we chat.

“Huh, on this shot, you can see the shadow of your mass on the side of your heart,” and she gestures to the monitor. To me, it looks like it could be a moon landing, but she’s the expert, so she understands what is there.

Once I’m cleaned up and she has left, I settle back into bed, grateful at the lack of needles necessary, and think forward to the next day’s procedure.

A day later, one bone marrow biopsy down and a port in my chest, it’s the morning and I’m waiting to find out how quickly I’ll begin chemo. I eat breakfast, a nurse comes in to check my vitals, and watch the minute and hour hands move by on the clock. I had blood work from the day before to ensure that I never had hepatitis and we were waiting for the results. Apparently, chemo can cause dormant hepatitis to flare up.

The nurse doesn’t mention the second bone marrow biopsy necessary and I begin to think that maybe it was forgotten. I have a small moment of guilt because I wonder if I’m supposed to remind them or if should I stay quiet. I feel like a school child when a teacher forgets to ask for an assignment he or she requested from the day before and no one says anything.

The nurse preps the hospital room with chemo materials while I sit and wait with my family. She brings in a large yellow bucket with saline filled lines and other tools. I see her bring in dishwashing gloves and a plastic poncho and I begin to wonder if this will be crafts time, instead. The tools look like ones I have used in fabric dyeing.

My oncologist appears around 11 am, bringing a technician with a tray full of goodies with him. Oh boy, I think, some more pillowcase chewing time. Thankfully, it only took one pass to get the juicy tissue in my marrow. Relieved that it’s over, I eat lunch and wait for chemotherapy to begin.

The nurse appears shortly after 2 pm and begins putting on the HAZMAT poncho and dishwashing gloves. She begins readying the first bag of my “cocktail” of treatments and explains: “I have to wear these because if this spills on me, it could be dangerous.”

And you’re putting this inside of me? I think in alarm.

She connects the bag to my port and says that she has to wait for 15 minutes with me in the room in case I go into convulsions because this is the “rough” one. I look around timidly at the nurse and my family, nervous that something might just happen.

But nothing does.

The nurse leaves the room and the bag is slowly drained into me over a span of several hours. By the time it’s finished, I get dinner and the night shift of nurses has come on. It takes a few hours to get back into the swing of things.

Vitals taken. Breathing treatment.

The same nurse from the night before comes in with the second bag of the cocktail mix. My family has left for the night and I’m sitting in the dark with my laptop once more. Once it’s hooked up, I begin to feel my face and head itch. My nose hairs feel like they are burning. The taste in my mouth is awful and I reach for the gummy candies my dad had brought me and chew on them for dear life. An hour goes by way too slowly, but the nurse comes back in and I’m grateful that this one is over.

I realize that I’m mentally making notes for my reactions with each bag.

The third one is tiny and precious and looks like it is Easter egg dye: bright blue. I already begin to imagine the future color of my urine. My nurse notifies me that this one only takes 30 minutes and another 30-minute bag is to immediately follow.

The next two seem to go quickly and I look at the clock and notice it’s nearing midnight. I remain glued to my laptop and I’m instantly relieved when I’m connected to just saline and antibiotics.

I made it through the first chemotherapy. That was it.

I’m told that I will stay in the hospital during the next day so they can check the toxicity of my blood. Apparently, the chemo goes in and kills both bad and good cells and lowers my overall blood count.

I finally fall asleep to the thought that I can do this, with only 7 more sessions to go over the next 6 months. I wake up an hour or so later feeling feverish followed by a cold sweat. I stay perfectly still because I’m too tired to move. I pull more blankets around me and finally fall back asleep, anticipating my freedom of the hospital...