I’m not sure what I was expecting on Wednesday when I went in for my first chemo infusion. I had so many conflicting images and stories floating around in my head that my handy self-defense compartmentalization kicked in, and I was able to walk into the clinic blissfully ignorant.
My first clue that it was not going to be a cakewalk was when my nurse asked me which side my port was on.
“I don’t have mine installed yet,” I replied. “We’re doing a IV in my arm today.”
“Ooh,” she winced, seemingly involuntarily. “That’s going to hurt.”
Great.
The whole shebang lasted about 4 hours, including pre-meds, hydration, flushing, and infusions. I felt pretty ok during the infusion itself and was able to chat with my dad and Mike (it was his birthday, incidentally, which is completely shitty), read, color, and text. When there were about 45 minutes left of the final drug, oxaliplatin, I started to feel a bit woozy and green, and my left arm (my IV arm) began to hurt quite a bit. I yoga-breathed through it, and was disconnected shortly thereafter.
The walk to the car and the drive home were simply wretched. My left arm hurt so much that I could not move or touch it. My limbs and extremities felt heavy and weak to the point that I could not do much with either hand. My eyelids, lips, and tongue were all twitching and pursing and pulling down on their own accord. My toes were on pins and needles and my nausea passed over me in waves. Halfway home, my brave, funny, “she’s such an inspiration and a warrior” face slipped, and I began to cry. But here’s the kicker: it hurt to cry. It felt like a mixture of sand and tiny hot coals were coming out of my eyes. The cruelty and unfairness of it all hit me full force then. I can’t even fucking cry.
The next few days passed in a little bit of a blur. I took my oral chemo, I kept up with my anti-nausea, and went about life as usual. My side effects come and go, and every moment is an adventure. I breathed a sigh of relief on Saturday morning, secure in my knowledge that my support system would be there and I could do the one thing I had been longing to do: sleep. Quelise and Mike were on main duty, Jamie scooped Ramona up a some point, and my dad came by, too, to start on a miles-long (self-inflicted, mind you) honey-do list with Mike.
And I slept. On the couch, in my bed, in the chair, at the kitchen table. It was glorious and heartbreaking.
It is Sunday morning now, and my main goal for the day is to take a shower. If that goes well, a walk, perhaps even an easy hike. I’m really trying not to think of chemotherapy as the enemy–it’s what will kill the cancer, after all–but chemo’s a serious son-of-a-bitch.
Silver lining roll call:
- My dad is staying in the states for a few months instead of a few weeks.
- We (finally) hired a house cleaner.
- Mashed potatoes are an acceptable meal breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
- Mike deals with hardship by doing dishes.
- Middle school students are so well behaved after you tell them you have cancer.
- There is now a GIANT bottle of hand sanitizer at my classroom door, and students are forced to use it (or the sink right next to it) every time they enter my room. I’ve been wanting to do this for ever, but now I don’t look like a crazy person!
Jenessa, your are such a fine
Writer. Sending you warm wishes
And love.
Tamara Ginzberg Herman
Debbie Herman’s mom
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Dear Jenessa, Your ability to express what you’re going through is both heart breaking and awe inspiring. Remembering back to when you were two years old, you took control of any situation you were in and I’m certain you still are! Thank you for letting us follow your journey and for letting us cheer you on! We’re all Team Jenessa!
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You are a fabulous writer and a soulful person. I did the hand sanitizer thing too and the kids were great about it. I also did the housekeeper-good idea! Keep doing warm drinks, warm water, warm toes and fingers for the oxaliplatin. The port will be much better-you won’t have the hurting arm. Sending you white light with love.
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So moved. So in awe of the hero you are each and every day. Hoping this will pass swiftly and only be a blip on a life where you will be hero to so many more. Sending you lots of love.
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If he had only moved Jenessa quickly past chemo and beyond fear to freedom, Dayenu!
I have other friends going through chemo but couldn’t really grasp the experience even superficially. Appreciate you taking it out from behind the cloak of silence.
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Hi. I’ve been doing this on again, off again chemo and multiple surgeries since 2008
9 years with colon cancer and with metastases
The first favor you owe yourself is to have a port put in place. It’s a huge help. FYI, contrary to popular protocol, my surgeon inserts the port under general anesthesia. He’s a very experienced man. We both agree this is by far and away the best approach
Are you on IV Oxaliplatin and IV 5-FU, or oral 5-FU ? ( xeloda ) ???
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Right now I’m on iv Avastin+Oxaliplatin and Xeloda. Next cycle I’m switching to FolFox (5FU pump) + Avastin.
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I had the port put in under general too. Can’t imagine it any other way.
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Sending you my best wishes from Australia
-Adi Wajnberg (Jamie’s sister-in-law)
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You are a wonderful soul….thank you for sharing. Love, jane gold and PAC family
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Hi Jenessa. I’m Nicole’s dad. I thoroughly enjoyed your surrogate journey as Nicole shared your story. We would talk about it and I recall how we both admired your courage, generosity, compassion and sacrafice. We would also admire the support of Mike and your young kids. Your story was uplifting and unimaginable, yet we the readers could have a glimpse of the process, emotions, and share in a joyous ending.
This next chapter is going to be read with a heavy heart and many prayers for you, Mike, the kids, your Dad and the whole extended family. And of course your friends. Of which, I know Nicole is honored to be considered one of your friends.
I pray for you to maintain your faith in the hardest times. You maintain your love for God, family and friends. You maintain your courage to fight an enemy who is merciless, unsimpathetic and indiscriminate.
A portion of Psalm 20:
“Restore her spirit and soul. May You be filled with mercy for her to restore her to health, to cure, strengthen, and revitalize her as is the wish of all for her relatives and loved ones. May You send her a complete recovery, a spiritual recovery, and a physical recovery. “
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Oh jenessa. Thank you so much for taking us on this journey with you. I read it all with a very heavy heart. I am moved by your strength and you’re honest acceptance of vulnerability. I keep you, your children and your entire family in my heart every single day. Sending you so much light and love. 💖
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Jenessa… know you are strong, even at times when you may not feel like it. Your courage, honest words, and vulnerability to share your truth with us during this process is an inspiration. Know that we are all here rooting for you and giving our thoughts and love to you and your family during this time, and always.
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As always throughout your life, you’re a brave soul, Jenessa. You have our love and our thoughts always. We are here for you and your family.
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Jenessa, i am reading your blog backward. I wish you could go back to being cancer free and having babies. I have not yet read the surrogate blog. Hang in there O woman of courage
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