Peeing red is more fun when it is because your wife made a beet and feta salad that she cajoled you into eating and you had to admit that, while it tasted a little like dirt, it wasn't so bad.
Peeing red to rid yourself of the Red Devil, less so.
Although I have to take this opportunity to thank my kidneys for what can only be described as work above and beyond the call. In a direct battle-cry against my drug concerns of the last post, I can calmly and with vigor state that my years and years not drinking have at the very least brought me into this cancer ward with a personal wastewater treatment plant that will more than do it's share of the work.
The Daunorubicin--the Devil by any other name--actually goes into the vein red, in just a syringe they tap into the line.
I started with the vinchristine around 9 in the morning. That's a small bag of chemo that drops in a half hour or so. Then they bring a bag of Zofran, which is an anti nauseal. That takes a few minutes but because I felt so bad last week they leave me for a half hour to let it seep in.
Then the Devil, and the Ukrainian nurse has to wear battle gear and just stand by the bedside. She pushes a bit into the tube, the thick red plunges into the saline, and when it clears again she pushes a little more. Hard to make small talk, but N found out she speaks Polish and Russian as well, and that ESL classes like the ones N works are part of the reason she's now a nurse at a great hospital and about to take a vacation to Aruba. Take that you terrified gringo dipshits in Arizona--that's what immigrants bring. Go frisk yourself, you tiny tiny minds.
Sorry, getting harder to stay nice.
The day progressed ok from there. Yet another smuggled meal-wad from the outside world made it down my gullet--Korean steak last night and chicken with beans for lunch.
And I am glad I got it down, because my body-memory is starting to tell me we're done with the happy for a bit.
Teeth starting to hurt. Harder to concentrate on speaking with people. And the squeeze.
I had forgotten the squeeze until it came back. Just this sense that my body is tightening down. Guts tighter in their space, back a little taut, chest won't open fully for a breath.
It is a defensive pose being matched at every level. And each little throat twinge tightens it down another notch. Odd. I feel like one of those sailor knots I am not good at tying; the ones that get tighter the more they get pulled on.
That is it so far. But it is early, I guess. Not feeling to jazzed about dinner, or about the steroids that should be here any minute. Onward. Onward.
And thank god I can read. Other than the lowest hours of last week I have not had my concentration on books damaged. Since coming in I have read:
The Man In The Window, KO Dahl
Honeybee, Naomi Shihab Nye--the ncv book for this year
Anil's Ghost, Michael Ondaatje
And am getting into The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo--which looks to be a bit less good than the Scand mysteries I have been devouring but should still transport.
And that's what I need. Transport. The colors are greying, so to speak. Not in any dramatic way; it is just that the sickness tunnels your experience and drains the edges. If I am not careful I will just end up sitting in the pain. I hate a wallow, justified or not.
The steroids just came. Here we go.
I can already hear noises that I fear are the dinner tray, and I know it is too early. Ah well, I was here last week, and I got out. So I will get out again.
