Chemo Fog

The Chemo Fog. I first heard the phrase today in the waiting room from two women, who had very different experiences, but both of whom agreed that the Chemo Fog descends on everyone, even if you are not physically sick (read throwing up).

And they were not kidding. I guess my adrenal 'episodes', that have dogged me over the past 20 years were a kind of preparation for this, in that I learned Biofeedback and Quigong Tai Chi - both of which are proving useful in a big way. The biofeedback puts me in a kind of meditative trance, during which I can lower blood pressure (which is what I learned it for in the US), remove pain and generally calm the body, and the Tai Chi provides gentle exercise for the whole body, reduces stress and improves circulation.

Well, the fatigue from the chemo is much more severe than I have ever experienced. I feel like I am being pulled to the floor by invisible forces and my eyes are bulging out, while in the gut area I feel like a trussed chicken. And my hormones (or whatever is left of them) are raging, and I feel feverish. Strangely enough, when I get up off my duff and walk around the house, I feel much better. The women told me that too..................

So, the choices I have are quite limited: feel progressively worse lying in bed, or get up and do something. You guessed it. I got up and did my Tai Chi. Lo and behold, I felt quite normal - as long as I was doing it. A few seconds after I finished, CRASH, the fatigue descended double. But I did enjoy the respite enormously!

Now, lest you think that someone is paying me to say something nice about my treatment 'Team', let me just say that we have socialised medicine in Australia and the treatment I am getting at this particular cancer centre is for everyone-those with and those without. As far as I know, the 'My Journey" Kit I got in the hospital, that had too much information then, but now is very much appreciated, is organised through the Breast Cancer Network Australia (see link).

Breast cancer survivors seem to be a hardy bunch, and united worldwide to make sure that those coming after them have more information, more support than they did in their jouney. Of course, every system is only as good as the people involved in it, so I think it's important to acknowledge the people who treat you well, especially since I had some not so nice things to say about some at the beginning.

And to titillate those with a voyeuristic bent: what is a chemo lounge really like? The simple answer is, it's like a huge open office. There is a large nurses' station close to the door you enter. The area closest to this is reserved for new patients, so the nurses coming and going can keep an eye on them for reactions. The patients sit in a comfy blue grandfather chair that has a leg rest if you want one, and next to the chair is the chemo feed line. I guess there are 10-12 such chairs (but don't quote me). Further back from the stationg there are individual cubiles that have space for a bed. I didn't count how many, but at least another 10, I would say.

Today the place was a bedlam, because they were treating two day's worth of patients to free the staff up for a seminar tomorrow. Actually, bedlam is a negative word. I should say that the place was a hive of healthy activity. Many of us were waiting in the waiting room for quite a long time and every half hour someone would come along, explain what is going on and apologise for the inconvenience. That's real communication. You knew there was a problem, but you would still have your turn and be treated as well as if it was a normal day. Nobody would be turned away for lack of time.

The nurse attending me was Randolph the magician, who made the whole experience a delightful, feel good, chemistry lesson. He named and explained some side effects of every poison he was pouring into my body. First, I was given an antinausea pill, called Emend, one hour before this session. Now, he gave me a pink tablet, also against nausea and vomiting. Having attached the IV line, he started with a steroid, called dexamethasone, followed by the two chemo drugs, Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide. Then, he left me alone with the IV and Isabelle Allende's novel "Zorro" to keep me company.

By the time Randolph came to disconnect the IV an hour and a half later, the Chemo fog has descended and Zorro's adventures looked a blurr. I had a metallic taste in the mouth, a roaring headache, a bloated stomach and my eyes were bulging out of their sockets. Randolph meticulously explained which symptom belonged to which drug, but hey, guess what, who cares. All I want to know right now is, will the antinausea drugs work tomorrow?