Chemo Cocktails, Part 1--The Early Years

che·mo·ther·a·py (km-thr-p) n.: The treatment of disease by means of chemicals that have a specific toxic effect upon the disease-producing microorganisms or that selectively destroy cancerous tissue. (dictionary.com)

che·mo (kmo) n.:  A toxic intravenous cocktail that kills as many cells in your body as possible without killing the patient. (Christy)

I've become an unwitting student of the recent history of chemotherapy in the treatment of breast cancer.  Really, I'd rather study the history of...just about anything else.  My decennial trips through the world of oncology have given me a unique window into the advances in the systemic treatment of cancer.

Essentially, the goal of chemotherapy is to kill any stray cancer cells that may be throughout my body...the surgery removed the tumors, but there's a possibility that a few microscopic cells are looking for a new place to breed.  In the simplest terms, they look for drugs that kill the malignant cells will killing as few healthy cells as possible.  Inevitably, healthy cells will die, and thus side effects are born. Nausea, hair loss, nerve pain, mouth sores, exhaustion, general malaise, changes in taste buds, thinning nails...these are all caused when the drugs are killing off healthy cells in the pursuit of malignancy.

In 1995, at age 25, I was the "perfect candidate" for a new regimin of "High Dose Chemotherapy."  The theory at the time was to give the maximum dosage that the patient could handle.  It turns out that the research eventually showed that the high dose chemotherapy didn't lead to any better outcomes than traditional dosage levels.

Great, now you tell me.

I was given a typical regimin of Cytoxan and Adriamycin (commonly referred to as AC) but at much higher doses than were typical.  The result was a dangerous drop in my white and red blood cell counts, sepsis that landed me in the hospital for 5 days, and left me feeling pretty darn lousy for about 4 months.  The good news is that it killed everything.  The bad news is that I have had the lifetime maximum of Adriamycin, so one weapon in the arsenal against breast cancer is off the table.  Cytoxan...they can give me as much of that is I want (um, none???)  But the Adriamycin is off the table. Since it made me pee orange for a couple days, I'm not sure how sad that this makes me.

It's been 18 years, but I have a few prominent memories of my first experience with chemo.

1. Losing your hair sucks.  Yeah, no way around that.  It's only hair, and it grows back, but it does come out, it's sad, and it actually hurts as it falls out.  And yes, you do lose ALL of your hair.  And I mean ALL of it.  I cried because I thought it made me look sick, and I didn't want to look sick.  Now I realize that losing your hair is a battle scar of the fight--it is a sign of strength, not of illness.

2. Sepsis is nasty and hospitals are a terrible place to recover from it.  I ended up with an infected blood clot (septic phlebitis for those of you playing the home game) caused by a medi-port (I don't recommend these, for the record...)  After 2 weeks of trying to figure out why I was in excruciating pain with 104 degree fevers, a nurse found staph in my blood stream, had me admitted to the hospital, and put me on an intravenous cocktail of pain killers, blood thinners, and antibiotics.  I spent 5 days on the cancer ward of Fairfax Hospital, sharing a room with a terminal lung cancer patient.  Between my roommates coughing (which broke my heart), her plethora of visitors (who were very kind to me--bringing me ice cream and other treats), the 5am blood draws, and the endless beeping of the machines that were hooked up to me.  I've never been so glad to get back into my own bed in my life after that experience.

3.  Family and friends make it all bearable.  Truly.  You can't get through this one on your own, kids.  You need others--sitting through treatments, keeping you company, helping you keep your brain engaged when it feels like it's turning to mush.  And most importantly, reminding you that there's still a life after cancer treatment--they are living it, and soon, you will be, too.