Day 3 : The Puking Starts

Not me!  Let's get that out of the way up front.  I didn't start puking.  The docs say I might not with these types of chemo.  I'm hopeful.

That doesn't mean that there wasn't puke.  Oh there was puke.  Buckets of it.

Day 3 was Wednesday.  The day I get disconnected from the chemo pump.  I'd been looking forward to that ever since they connected me.  I'd been fantasizing about a shower without being attached to any devices.  Dream big!  It is possible to shower while connected to the chemo pump and when I'm hooked up 24/7 for 6 weeks in a row you can all breathe easy knowing I'll make it work.

Nurse's Advice for Showering with a Chemo Pump:
"You know that Glad Press 'n' Seal?  Grab a big sheet of that and put it over the port where the chemo is going in.  Don't get it wet.  Also, keep the pump well away from the shower." 🙄

So I'll shower Wednesday after they disconnect me.  Got it.

So Disconnect Day comes and my buddy Pete grabs me and we head out.  The chemo taste has faded and so we hit Chickie's & Pete's (no relation) and grab a bite.

Crab Legs Are Messy

After that we head to the Cancer Center and Pete gets his first taste of The Infusion Room.  When you talk about chemotherapy, The Infusion Room is what people are imagining.  About a dozen cancer patients, sitting on pleather recliners, hooked up to to chemotherapy pumps, surrounded by institutional decor.  Humorless doesn't begin to describe it.

But just when you can't find the humor, along comes Neulasta!  Neulasta is a white-cell boosting medication with The Most Sadistic Delivery System Ever Devised™.  Here's how it works:
The nurse loads the drug into the totally not evil-looking, white, plastic device.
The harmless-appearing thing gets stuck to your belly and activated.
Random amount of time passes.
Stabbing!

At some point over the next few minutes, you will be stabbed.  No warning, no countdown, just BAM! needle in the belly.   Hi-larious.   I guess you had to be there.  Pete was cracking up.

After the stabbing, they leave the device attached.  'Oh, you were going to shower today?  How's Thursday looking?"

Let's turn that frown upside down... with stabbing!

Pete drops me off at home and I lay down on my sofa, punctured and exhausted.  The phone rings with bad news: Lydia is at the school nurse and has thrown up.

Bring her home, set her up in bed with a bucket and a bell.  She lies down and I do too.  You might think this is where the puking begins.  You'd be wrong.

Seconds later, the other two are home with Holly and the regular, after-school madness ensues.

Anna also isn't feeling well.  She wants to lie down on the sofa next to me.  I never, ever turn down a cuddle and so she does.  Everything is peaceful until she pukes.  That little girl pukes like a fire hose.  Her gut must've saved up every drop of everything she put down over the last 8 hours.  It's on Holly, the sofa, the love seat, the coffee table, the end table and the rug.  I banish her to the nearest bathroom (because tile and drains) while Holly and I wipe down all the furniture and banish the rugs outside.

Utterly spent, I face plant on the freshly-wiped sofa while Holly transforms into a vomit managing super hero because now the seal has been broken.  From my semi-comatose state in the Family Room I hear aural cues indicating which daughter is currently puking (all of 'em eventually) and how big of a mess it is.  I think there were baths and I know there was laundry... but luckily I was spared.