OPINION

MASTERSON ONLINE: Intro to chemo

Chemotherapy for many Arkansans, including a number of close friends, has become a reality over the years. Little wonder, since it represents a primary and effective defense against cancer.

Until now for me it's been a world I knew little about, except it involved regular IV treatments that can last hours and often foster side effects such as nausea, hair loss and fatigue.

That suddenly changed for me. My introduction to IV treatment arrived three weeks ago, ever since a squamous cell cancer (the beast) was discovered growing in my left lymph node.

Within the Claude Parrish Cancer Center two miles from home, the chemotherapy section is located on the opposite side from radiation treatment.

I wasn't certain what to expect when I first entered the busy treatment room lined with leather recliners alongside metal stands that hold the treatment medications.

Six sessions are an integral part to my combined treatment between chemotherapy and hepatology specialist Dr. Candice Baldeo and radiation oncologist Dr. Arnold Smith, both board-certified in their fields.

As of today, I've completed three treatments. Halfway there. Does that make me still a novice? Therapies are administered on Tuesdays in a three-hour process that routinely follows that day's 20-minute radiation therapy, one of five during the week.

The first thing I noticed, walking into the room with sunlight streaming through a glass wall to my right, was how crowded it was on this day. Most patients appeared to be females of at least my age. Only three treatment recliners of about a dozen remained vacant.

Claiming a chair near the back of the L-shaped room, I sat back and waited for the busy attending RN, Michelle Collier, to make her way to me.

She approached with a broad smile and necessary treatment in hand. I felt only a slight pinch upon her attaching the primary supply tube to the port implanted in my upper right chest three weeks ago by Harrison surgeon Dr. James Langston.

Hanging a bag overhead filled with clear liquid, she explained this would be step one of three. Hydration fluid containing potassium and magnesium.

But beforehand, she inserted a hypodermic needle filled with fluids that would ensure the line leading to my port is properly prepared.

Then she reached up to initiate what would require an hour for the bag to slowly drip till empty, all the while clicking away the seconds, "clickety-click, clickety-click."

I spent a while studying the room, feeling empathy for those sharing time alongside me. Some were clearly fatigued and frail. Some read books, others slept, and two were watching TVs installed on the wall in front of each recliner.

We had come to this place seeking help in fighting back as best we can at this stage of existence. Each of us, and those who love and care for us, had an unenviable stake in the outcome.

No one I know would choose to be reclined here side-by-side under these circumstances.

Then I flipped on the TV directly in front of my recliner and closed my eyes to reflect on the unforeseen circumstances life hands us from out of the blue as we age.

Four months ago, perhaps like you, I was anticipating another enjoyable and active normal summer with family and friends. You know, golf, fishing, patio parties, and getaways.

Yet, a tiny single cell trapped by a vigilant little lymph node became larger than a golf ball seemingly in no time. And almost overnight, ol' Mike's normal became very abnormal.

And what I wouldn't give today to regain what I had only those few months ago.

Instead of getting away to summer places, I was waging war with this beast.

But, as I mentioned earlier, isn't such increasing uncertainty how life unfolds the longer we survive? We understandably mislead ourselves into believing things will remain as they are today, ignoring that what we see as normal life is ever-changing.

Enough Ozarks philosophy for today.

The aroma of food wafted through the room near the time bag No. 1 ran dry. The fragrance was actually enough to stir an otherwise dulled appetite. I began steadily losing my appetite about the time the beast was discovered.

Soon, a nurse was delivering each of us a box of chicken strips, mashed potatoes with gravy and green beans with a roll, and a chocolate pudding cup.

All this sense of caring, along with a lunch, was provided to the noontime chemotherapy patients each weekday by the nutrition department led by Paula Cantu of the adjacent North Arkansas Regional Medical Center.

I ate everything during my first visit when I still could swallow with relatively minimum effort and was appreciative for both. There's also a refrigerator in the room regularly stocked with water, soft drinks and fruit juices.

When the first bag had emptied, a soft beeping alarm informed the nurse who showed up carrying a second one. This one was filled with anti-nausea meds, Pepcid and steroids to prevent any reactions, and also required a full hour to drain.

As you likely deduced, there's plenty of time on chemo days to nap, reflect, read, watch TV (give me "Seinfeld" episodes) or kill time on your cell.

The third, smaller bag of actual chemotherapy is attached last in the mix. It only needed close to 40 minutes to empty without any noticeable effects, at least not initially. Later I felt fatigued from the long day of back-to-back treatments.

Stacked on a wall before me are pillows, blankets and comforters to keep patients' feet and legs warm in the air conditioning, another physical benefit of growing older.

Thus has gone my adventure in chemotherapy, valued readers. There's really nothing that difficult about it, short of realizing your body is being given substances powerful enough to hopefully kill the beasts that had brought us together in this room during a difficult period of our lives.

Dr. Baldeo passed through the room during each of my three treatments, visiting cordially with each of us and giving updates on the results of our latest blood tests.

A nurse draws blood on the Friday before Tuesday treatments to ensure there's been no damage from the chemo. After two sessions, she declared mine was faring well. I'd rather hear that kind of report than the alternative.

And thus far, fatigue is the only result I can detect. I'm thankful to still have my hair when I realize so many lose theirs during chemotherapy. I'm hoping that remains unchanged after the fourth, fifth and sixth. But I'm always aware that today's normal doesn't mean this life won't remain unchanged as the hours tick away. I'm clearly headed into a new and yet-unknown normal from what life was before.

But we can always hope as we forge ahead together, can't we?

Now go out into the world and treat everyone you meet exactly like you want them to treat you.

Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at [email protected].

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