Round two of chemo is in the bag.
Morphine Pump and I were introduced shortly after I was delivered back to my room. My liver's second chemo embolization was complete. From what I can remember through the pain and drugs, the situation was as follows. I emerged from the anesthesia. Shards of searing pain ripped through my abdomen like a high-speed train tearing its way across the terrain, fiery sparks flying from the wheels as they barely retained their grip on the tracks. I vomited. Clear liquid filled the forest-green bag they held to my face. A strange, tingling in my legs could only be construed in my not-so-cognizant state as, "SOMETHING IS SO SERIOUSLY WRONG I'M BECOMING PARALYZED." Pain. I may or may not have been little hysterical. More pain. Epic thirst levels. A bright light appeared and I started to walk towards it. More pain.
Before I reached the warm, white glow, it was decided a morphine drip would be put in place. So, I remained, for the time being, a member of Earth. The chemo (probably) wouldn't have killed me but since it was trying it's damnedest to do just that, Morphine Pump intervened. Insert super hero anthem here. Round two has proven infinitely worse than his predecessor. MP kept me from doing my best Bond villain and popping the syaniade capsule hidden in my hair. After round one I napped a little, ate dinner courtesy of my sis, read until midnight, tried unsuccessfully to sleep, and went home grumpy in the morning. Not so much this time.
I slept straight through the post-procedure hours I must spend lying still so my vein clots. Anytime I awoke, Morphine Pump was there with a smile to gently chuck me under the chin and guide me back to dreamland. This was a perk as these hours draaaaaaaaagggggged by the first time. Another perk of this drugged-induced slumber is not using the bed pan.... ugh, enough said. Any time I needed to get up, which wasn't often, it was quite a production. The odd little pumps on my legs to correct the tingling had to be detached, my oxygen nose piece removed, the IV pole rolled with me, etc. I could not eat. At a certain point, my father lovingly told me I was going to eat. A banana seemed like an innocent choice. One bite and I vomited. Another forest green bag was filled with clear liquid. What didn't make it into the bag was promptly whisked away once the nurse was buzzed and my bedding/gown changed... again. Although it didn't seem like I would, I made it through the night.
I have yet to figure out how or why people use pain medications recreationally. I experience unrelenting side effects when I take prescription pain meds. My post-chemo pain levels were apocalyptic and even facing this ominous suffering, I hesitated to use the Oxycodone prescribed to me. This is the alternative to the Dilaudid I was given the first time around, which I staunchly refuse to ever take again. This alternative has proven to be an epic failure on my rating scale of pain meds. I only want medications that do not metabolize in the liver. Of the three I've experienced so far my rating scale is as such:
BEST PAIN MEDICATION EVER = Morphine. Ahhh, I have warm-fuzzies just thinking about it.
WORST PAIN MEDICATION EVER = anything else.
I know I'm biased since Morphine Pump and I became so close but I still think this scale is fairly scientific. So, upon my release from the hospital and an agonizing good-bye with MP, I was forced to use the Oxycodone to attempt to alleviate some of my pain. At one point I wondered if I had an 'Aliens' situation on my hands. Was an extraterrestrial being mutilating my insides as it prepared to claw it's way out of my midriff (click here if you don't know what I'm referencing)? Did they do the chemo wrong and all of my internal organs were dissolving? Had I been sawed in half during a magic show gone wrong? My only hope of some respite from this torment was to pop a pill. Following this action I would have to find a quite, dark space where I could wait out the incapacitating migraine. Sleep was my reprieve so I took long naps. And this is how I passed my days. Pain, pill, wait out the side effects. Lather, rinse, repeat. This medication is a narcotic, the same category shared with meth. Forget any desire to eat. Forget the end result of eating as narcotics notoriously cause constipation. Interestingly, I felt itchy while taking this medication which explains why meth users are always scratching and are riddled with open sores- I was coming close to the same look. Eventually the pain lessened enough I could just tough it out. Or perhaps I just decided the pain medication was no longer for me.
Disclaimer: to those who were actually around during these events, if I've misreported them in any way I apologize. I'm merely giving the account as I recall and let's face it, I heavily drugged. I'm not trying to enter into an Oprah vs. James Fray situation so we'll just pretend this is exactly what happened.
I slept straight through the post-procedure hours I must spend lying still so my vein clots. Anytime I awoke, Morphine Pump was there with a smile to gently chuck me under the chin and guide me back to dreamland. This was a perk as these hours draaaaaaaaagggggged by the first time. Another perk of this drugged-induced slumber is not using the bed pan.... ugh, enough said. Any time I needed to get up, which wasn't often, it was quite a production. The odd little pumps on my legs to correct the tingling had to be detached, my oxygen nose piece removed, the IV pole rolled with me, etc. I could not eat. At a certain point, my father lovingly told me I was going to eat. A banana seemed like an innocent choice. One bite and I vomited. Another forest green bag was filled with clear liquid. What didn't make it into the bag was promptly whisked away once the nurse was buzzed and my bedding/gown changed... again. Although it didn't seem like I would, I made it through the night.
I have yet to figure out how or why people use pain medications recreationally. I experience unrelenting side effects when I take prescription pain meds. My post-chemo pain levels were apocalyptic and even facing this ominous suffering, I hesitated to use the Oxycodone prescribed to me. This is the alternative to the Dilaudid I was given the first time around, which I staunchly refuse to ever take again. This alternative has proven to be an epic failure on my rating scale of pain meds. I only want medications that do not metabolize in the liver. Of the three I've experienced so far my rating scale is as such:
BEST PAIN MEDICATION EVER = Morphine. Ahhh, I have warm-fuzzies just thinking about it.
WORST PAIN MEDICATION EVER = anything else.
I know I'm biased since Morphine Pump and I became so close but I still think this scale is fairly scientific. So, upon my release from the hospital and an agonizing good-bye with MP, I was forced to use the Oxycodone to attempt to alleviate some of my pain. At one point I wondered if I had an 'Aliens' situation on my hands. Was an extraterrestrial being mutilating my insides as it prepared to claw it's way out of my midriff (click here if you don't know what I'm referencing)? Did they do the chemo wrong and all of my internal organs were dissolving? Had I been sawed in half during a magic show gone wrong? My only hope of some respite from this torment was to pop a pill. Following this action I would have to find a quite, dark space where I could wait out the incapacitating migraine. Sleep was my reprieve so I took long naps. And this is how I passed my days. Pain, pill, wait out the side effects. Lather, rinse, repeat. This medication is a narcotic, the same category shared with meth. Forget any desire to eat. Forget the end result of eating as narcotics notoriously cause constipation. Interestingly, I felt itchy while taking this medication which explains why meth users are always scratching and are riddled with open sores- I was coming close to the same look. Eventually the pain lessened enough I could just tough it out. Or perhaps I just decided the pain medication was no longer for me.
Disclaimer: to those who were actually around during these events, if I've misreported them in any way I apologize. I'm merely giving the account as I recall and let's face it, I heavily drugged. I'm not trying to enter into an Oprah vs. James Fray situation so we'll just pretend this is exactly what happened.
Following chemo I'm ten years old. During recovery, I regressed to being driven around, cooked for and generally brought anything I needed to remain alive. I barely had to lift a finger (by doctors orders- I'm not allowed to lift more than 10 pounds for two weeks while the clot in my vein heals.) And now I no longer know how to be a grown-up. Where will my next lunch come from? How do I get water in this cup? What pj's should I wear to bed? The Disney Princesses ones? I agree.
