The girl with two brains

One week out of the hospital and the days have blurred together into a mess of aches, tears, laughs, and appointments.

The Monday following my release, I was injected with radioactive glucose for a PET scan to check all of my lymph nodes. Much to my disappointment, I did not become Spiderman or a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, no matter how much I questioned that validity with the technician.

Somehow I think my youth and sarcasm amuse all the people working at the Oncology Center. There is no doubt in my mind that I stick out. If my mom accompanies me to an appointment, other patients glance between her and me and I can tell they are assessing: who is the patient? When the nurse calls my name and I stand up, eyebrows raise. I don’t know if it’s surprise or pity I detect. Then again, I look like an unkempt teenager most of the time now, so they might be regarding my appearance instead.

A few days later, the same tech that had administered the PET scan teases me: “aren’t there other places you’d like to hang out than here?” I smile sheepishly and sit in the waiting room awaiting another blood test, another shot.

The antibody shots are a unique addition to my days. Injected into my belly, they force my body to produce white blood cells. The first one made me feel a bit tender all over. The second one the next day made my entire body feel like it was having all out war. I could barely move and it hurt to cough. I finally took a pain pill to fall asleep.

Nurses at the Oncology Center completed the first few injections since I was trying to get my insurance company to release a set at my local pharmacy. Finally, after phone calls on my behalf and doctor authorizations, I have a box of injections overnighted to me through a mail order company. Apparently this is the only way I am to receive them.

The package is finally delivered at the end of the week and I’m not entirely sure what to expect inside, just that I know this isn’t Christmas in April.

The package begins like a ridiculous Russian nesting doll. After getting through the tape, there are Styrofoam chunks to remove to get to the center. Reaching further, there are ice packs surrounding a small box. The size would be perfect for holding chocolate truffles, except it is holding 10 small containers, each enclosed with an injection. The orange plastic casing around each injection has a friendly quality to it like: hey, I could be a pen. Though, in reality, it’s the guard that is pulled up to cover the needle when discarding it into the handy red biohazard container included in the box. Instructions and alcohol prep pads complete the set.

I’m fairly certain my family is one of only a few that has a box of injections sitting behind the bottles of ketchup and mustard in the fridge.

The first day I’m to inject myself, I situate myself in the bathroom with the biohazard box, the injection, a prep pad, and the instructions.

I open up the instructions like a roadmap and it’s clear that brevity was not the goal in creating this particular pamphlet. I’m reminded of when I first began coloring my hair as a teenager. I had opened up the instructions and read the directions word for word, then inspected the bottles and plastic gloves included.

I wish I were only coloring my hair at this moment.

I’m elated when I finally see the diagrams that show how it works (visuals!). After swabbing my belly with the prep pad, pulling off the cap and exposing the needle, I sit poised, trying to aim at myself.

“I can’t do this,” I say aloud.

And then I have an utter meltdown: tears and screaming.

You know how they say not to drive angry? It’s probably good advice to not inject yourself when having a meltdown.

As a disclaimer: it’s not a painful shot by any consideration. I think at that moment, I was frustrated by having to think through both parts. There is the me that is experiencing the shot and bracing herself. Then there is the other me that is performing the shot and making sure she doesn’t screw it up. Having to be both are very conflicting feelings to say the least.

I finally calm down enough and just finish the job. Relieved, I dump the injection into the biohazard box and put everything away. Tired from being upset, I crawl into bed and stare off into space.

The next day, I wake up with a bit of trepidation because I know I have to do another injection. My dad says he’ll help me, but I refuse saying that now I know how to do it.

Prepped again with needle poised, I have another meltdown and hand the injection over to my dad. It’s like two guys deciding who is going to shoot.

Dad: “I’ll do it.”

Me: “No, I’ll do it, I know I can do it.”

Dad: “Ok, you do it.”

(Pause)

Me: “I can’t do it, you do it.”

And so forth.

So, we have decided as a family that I will have a Needle Buddy and that person is my dad. Just like in Finding Nemo:

“First, you need an Exit Buddy. Do you have your Exit Buddy?”

Except in my case:

“Do you have your Needle Buddy?”

(My dad raises his hand).

I prep everything and just hand over the injection and it makes the process that much easier. No more frustration about having to think through both parts.

I still sometimes have dualistic feelings post-chemotherapy, but apparently this is normal. Some days are just better than others.

But I’ll save those for other stories…