For this appointment, I was allocated the very, very large armchair in the Day Unit. The one that might possibly make a person feel like royalty or a hippo, depending on their mood. In an effort to settle in nicely, I spread some friendly-looking clutter from home around me. I was determined to feel and behave not as a hippo but a Chemo Queen, thank you. Especially as fearful hippos actually do something truly, truly terrible to mark their territory. (In case you are wondering: they "unleash a poop tornado". I know! The words are horrifying enough.)
Anyway, there were 2 nurses, each perched on low stools on either side of me. The more experienced nurse was supervising the other, who was doing my treatment as part of her training. There were calm and careful, a bit like a (chatty) bomb disposal team. I guess they needed to be. There are all sorts of hazards involved in administering this particular drug and nobody was keen to add any new disaster scenarios to their life story.
There was a lot of monitoring going on - of the silver drips for a series of bags suspended from a hook on a stand and of the red liquid creeping through the tube into my forearm. So much watching and waiting and counting. The situation reminded me of having a plaster removed from a small cut, millimetre by millimetre, by a favourite person. For several hours. With this kind person constantly checking if I could feel anything (and no, thankfully I did not).
The difficult part for me was not being given the doxorubicin, but the Cold Cap treatment, which I was having simultaneously. This time the strap under my chin was much too tight. Tight enough for my chin to feel like it was being firmly folded in half. Apparently, the cap would otherwise not sit close to my scalp and the danger would be of me getting bald patches later. But what a choice to have to make: A folded chin? Or bald patches? I am really, really looking forward to a future where people give me much lovelier choices again.
As doxorubicin has a reputation for turning wee pink, I was curious to find out if I would get pink tears as well? Just for a few hours? They at least sounded quite pretty. The answer was a disappointing, but then very reassuring, 'no'. Because who really wants to have pink, toxic tears on their face? To be fair, I don't need any more pinkness. I already have pink eye lids and pink cheeks.
So, that's my first meeting with The Red Devil over and done with. Two more to go. Hopefully, those will be okay too. I must somehow remain dignified, like a Chemo Queen though. Even if I do develop a permanently folded in half chin. Because nobody wants a fearful hippo in the Day Unit. We don't want any dramas in there and we certainly don't want any awful weather events either.
