Tag: Immunotherapy

December Scans

Most cancer patients have scanxiety. It’s the anxiety of knowing about an upcoming test or waiting what feels like an eternity for results. On day 1 I had bloodwork downtown at MD Anderson at 6:45 am. That’s the opposite side of Houston with lovely unpredictable traffic. Waking up way too early meant I was a zombie that couldn’t eat or drink anything for most of the day. Zombies need to eat. After bloodwork a lovely Barium concoction was made to order-I take mine mixed with Sprite. It’s a super sized drink that you have to hold your nose to take in 45 minutes. They don’t offer any mixers no matter how much you offer to bribe. Yes I have tried. Get drinking the super sized cup and don’t stop because you’re on the clock. After an hour or so is the actual CT scan that takes 10 minutes but there’s a million steps all asking you to verify your ID. Yes I know who I am. There’s also a wrist band just in case. After the CT scan came the MRI. You lie flat and your head is put in a helmet with foam all around to hold your head still. Then the mask is put on. You enter the tube knowing that there is no getting out. Being claustrophobic I have to put myself into deep relaxation and close my eyes each time I have this test. Sounds vibrate at different decimals. Each test lasts about 3-5 minutes and there’s usually 10 total-with and without contrast. After the tests all you want to do is to escape, to escape and go home to sleep. Day 1 was finally over and I could rest.

Twenty four hours later we were sitting in the packed waiting room for melanoma. Every one in that waiting room was fighting the same disease. It was completely packed with 40-50 people but you could hear a pin drop. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts and battle. As I looked around and tried to offer a smile of hope to a few that stared blankly anxiously awaiting for their name to be called. The majority of people were in their late 50s to 60s. I stuck out like a sore thumb being one of the youngest in the group.

You would think that after all this waiting they would come in and tell you the results, nope. A nurse comes in to review your medical history, yes I know I just got scans yesterday and no I haven’t fallen in the last month. Then a young doctor comes in an hour later to tell you the results. Today she was ecstatic to tell me that MY LUNGS WERE CLEAR OF ANY TUMORS AND THE BRAIN TUMOR HAD REMAINED THE SAME SIZE AND SHAPE!!! This means that either the tumor isn’t growing-great news or that it’s scar tissue that will always be there and won’t hurt anything-even better news. I’ll follow up again a few more times every 3 months. Finally the lead doctor comes in to tell the same news and answer any questions. They can’t say that I’m clean and in remission for at least a year. But for now this is a great victory. Everyday I’m getting stronger.

MD Anderson and the First Infusion

This place is like a fortress. It’s spoken so highly about around the world that you think you’ve arrived at the pearly gates, which hopefully you haven’t yet.

Each type of cancer has has their own area and team of nurses/doctors. It’s easy to see who has the same type of cancer you do and identify their symptoms. You can also see in their faces where they are emotionally. It’s very draining but one of the very few places where there’s true empathy. Bonus, they had good chemo friendly food and even a chick-fil-a on site (always a highlight).

The first day is always an endless stream of tests, blood work, and doctor’s visits. During my initial visit in March doctors had hoped to have me enrolled in a late stage trial. The trial would mean not paying and a good chance of success as most of the kinks were worked out in earlier trials. One of the conditions of being in the trial was to not have brain tumors to be in the study. No problem I thought confidently. They only found them in my lungs. A few weeks later I was scheduled for an MRI brain scan and to begin the trial treatment infusions just a few days later over Spring Break. The MRI scan usually takes 30-40 minutes where your head is completely surrounded and you can’t move. High pitched sounds echo in your ears. The only way to not panic is to meditate and leave the world behind. Sitting on the doctor’s table I was anxious about starting chemo infusions. What would it feel like? What reactions would I have? When would I see results?

My original doctor was on vacation and another took over. She had a third doctor come into the room to explain to me that I wouldn’t be receiving treatments that day and a 3mm brain tumor had been found. Didn’t qualify for the original study and another required a larger size brain tumor. The suggestion was to begin treatments in the usual way. I wanted to begin these right away.

During this time Brandon was also still looking for another job andwould soon be changing companies. This meant changing insurances and having a new set of deductibles to meet. I pushed to get the first treatment round covered by his old company. This gave me relief as I was doing something. With MD Anderson being in southeast Houston and us living 2.5 hour away I asked to have my infusions done at home and continue to see doctors at both places. Scans and treatment plans would all be done at MD Anderson.

The first infusion was scary. I arrived half an hour before they opened and saw a room of 60 reclining chairs waiting for the day’s patients. They came in slowly with the same look of resignation. They dozed off or stared into nothingness. Somehow those thoughts come into your head of why am I here, what did I do to deserve this, I’m too young to be here. Those questions and thoughts have no answers. During the first infusion I stared at the clock counting the minutes till I’d be through. Till I could say that I did it, I survived my first round.

After the first round I made it a point to make eye contact with someone else receiving their infusion and smile. It may not have been much but it said that together we’ll make it through this three hour hell.

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