What's chemo like to me?

It's a day I look forward to with ambivalence. I need the chemo, and I'm in good hands. But then I have to face the fallout.

I get my treatments at Clearview Cancer Institute. CCI is a beautiful, welcoming facility inside and out. I'd say about half of the parking spots are marked handicapped. You walk past a nice water feature to enter the spacious open lobby. First, you go to the lab. That's where they stick you and draw 5 small vials of blood. Within 10 minutes, they've run the numbers to see if you qualify for taking chemo that day. If any of your numbers are out of whack (too few red blood cells, etc), then your treatment goes on pause for a week.

BTW, at CCI, they have really good phlebotomists (people who stick you and draw blood). When they stick you, you barely even feel it. They've had a lot of practice. One guy, Patrick, has this technique that he says "is just like throwing darts." And that's how it looks. He rests the butt of his hand on my arm, holds the needle like a pencil, and sort of "throws" it into the vein. No fuss. No muss. If you ever need blood drawn, go to CCI for it. As good as they are, I think I'll use that service every time.

After labs, you sit in the lobby in one of the many couches or soft chairs near the entrance to you doctor's area. (There's Purell on every end table and coffee table.) When she's ready, the vitals nurse calls you back and weighs you and takes your temperature and blood pressure. Then you and whatever family you have with you go back to an exam room to consult with the oncologist.

I'm participating in a research study, helping advance the science of oncology. In my case, the study is to establish the fact that they can deliver the full dose of Rituxan to lymphoma patients in 90 minutes, instead of the standard 4 hours. Not very whizz-bang, but still very helpful. As a result of being on this study, I have a research nurse assigned to me who asks me additional questions and provides guidance about chemo.

Then, Dr. McGee came in and pulled up my shirt and felt around my belly to see if he could feel any lymphoma lumps in there. Since he can't, he feels we're pursuing a good course of treatment. I really like and trust Dr. McGee. He's a godsend.

After I'm OK'ed for treatment, I go to scheduling. That's where they set up your appointments for the next three weeks. Blood tests every week, and treatment on the third. (That's for lymphoma. Your mileage may vary.)

Scheduling gives me one of those square flashing buzzer beepers like restaurants have. They send you to the treatment waiting area, which is just a couple of padded benches in the hallway leading to the treatment area. When the buzzer goes off, you meet a nurse who's the equivalent of a hostess, who offers you a seating assignment.

The treatment area at CCI is a collection of about 5 pods, with six stations each. The center of each station is a power la-z-boy recliner with built in heat. My home for the next 5 hours. Next to that is an IV pole, and in back are cabinets holding nurses supplies. Within a pod, there are three of these stations on a side, and the two sides face each other. All the stations have a great view of the full-glass wall and doors that are in back of CCI. There's a fountain and woods outside. If you bring your own things (like a laptop or a cooler of goodies, etc), you put your things on one side, and leave the other side for the nurse and the IV pole. They have fast, free, open WIFI at CCI, so you can go online to do things like work or do facebook, or watch the Alabama-Auburn game, etc.

After you get set up and comfortable, the nurse asks you your name and date of birth. Both data are on everything they give you. Good thing, too. They would've given me something labeled for someone else today. (Right drug, wrong dose.)

My strategy is to use alternate arms each time. Today they put the drugs in my right arm. They usually use lots of tape to hold things together. I mentioned that it pulls the hair in my arm, so this time I had just one piece of tape and a wrap of that stretchy band stuff they give you after you donate blood. (It still pulled hair when we took it off.)

First drugs: prednezone, benadryl, tylenol, all taken orally. Those have to be on board at least 15 minutes before they begin the first big chemo drug. These pre-drugs help to reduce any allergic reactions to the irritating chemo.

Then the actual chemotherapy itself. If you want to know what I'm getting, it's called R-CHOP. Visit http://www.lymphomainfo.net/blog/general-lymphoma-blogs/chemotherapy-drugs-101-the-r-chop-regimen. That describes it pretty well.

They use these syringes of saline to flush the line between drugs. As soon as the saline starts going in, I get this medicine taste in my mouth. They say it's the preservative in the saline. That got me thinking. Maybe we could invent a saline preservative that causes a pleasant taste in your mouth! Nurse: What flavor would you like: fresh bread, chocolate, or banana?

The IV pole is on wheels, so I take it with me whenever I have to go.

Once all the drugs are in, they take vitals one more time to see if they've killed me and then Leilani drives me home.

Hint: don't eat leftover taco salad with spicy salsa on chemo day. The nausea meds are working hard to keep my system calm, but spicy foods irritate the body (usually in a good way, but not on chemo day). Next time, chicken noodle soup. And ginger snaps.

I'm glad you've found your inner strength.

That's code for "I'm not buying it."

So far, my journey through the wilderness with the Lord has been easy. So easy that I've been feeling like I've been cheating. Not that I haven't had nausea or problems with my guts. And I'm not really looking forward to getting another dose of chemo on Friday.

But God has really been blessing me! Friends, family, well-wishers pray for me. God's Word has been sweeter than Starbuck's Frappuccino. And, during the hard times, the sense of the Spirit's nearness has brought me peace and contentment that I never could imagine.

Having cancer gives you the right to talk about things that you normally oughtn't discuss in the work place. I shared some of my experiences of how the Lord is accompanying me on my journey with three coworkers today.

Janet: "Praise the Lord."

R---: "The key is to have that sense of optimism."

P---: "I'm glad you found that source of inner strength."

I'm saddened by the responses of R--- and P---. I was speechless. They don't get it. They clearly are not Christ's.

I called a friend asking him what I should do. He said, "You don't have to be preachy. Those guys wouldn't know what to do with it. I don't doubt that God will be using you throughout this journey."

That's both comforting and disconcerting. It may mean that God will allow things to worsen so that He can show His grace operating under pressure.

Whatever happens, I have nowhere else to turn. He is my Rock, my Shepherd. He is the Potter and I am his willing clay.

Joy vs. Happiness -- Another View

Tonight, pastor presented a lesson explaining the difference between joy and happiness. It was the standard, "Happiness is based on what happens. Joy is a choice and comes from the inside."

But my experience has been different. I can't choose to be joyful. When I just consider my circumstances, I can't help but jump for joy!

God is actively involved in my life. I have a sense of communion with Him. I talk easily with Him and He is taking care of me. He loves me! He keeps me company like a calm friend. He reminds me of things I've read in His book, things that guide and strengthen and encourage me. I'm excited about the journey we're on, knowing the destination is Home. With friends who traveled along with me. And family. And no more color blindness. And no more pain or sorrow. I think these things are part of "the joy that was set before Him" (Heb. 12:2).

I have cancer. Those words look so grotesque. But God continues to insulate me and my family from any pain or anxiety. I'm just a nobody. I don't deserve this exceeding kindness, and that makes it that much more wonderful. "I will never leave you nor forsake you." You haven't, and I'm counting on You to stay by me.

Of course I'm joyful. And when my next chemo treatment leaves me foggy and nauseous, He'll be right there. And I'll be joyful. And it's all based on my fabulous circumstances.

Day 0: "You have lymphoma."

Dr. Patel called and said the results of the CAT scan are that I have lymphoma. He told me over the phone because he couldn't have called and said, "Come on down to the office and let's have a little chat." Dr. Patel is a friend, and I could tell it was hard for him to break this news to me.

So there it is: a ton of bricks! What do you do with that?? I dropped everything and told a friend or two at work that I have lymphoma and I don't know what the future looks like, and headed down to Dr. Patel's in shock. Numb. Unreal. Really??

It was a Wednesday. That night was business meeting at church. Moderator and friend Rich led in prayer for me. Worship pastor and friend Jeff led in soul-strengthening worship songs. I still remember "Forever God is faithful. Forever God is strong. Forever God is with us. " (Thanks, Jeff. Manna!)

My friends in church expressed concern for me and to me. And still I was numb.

I went to Calvary Bible where I help with Awana, and they gathered around and prayed for me.

How I am loved!

I had given a talk a few days before about Peter walking on water, and so that was story was on my mind. I was in the same boat, so to speak. Jesus was inviting me to trust in Him in the middle of this raging storm and walk with Him. I was keeping my focus on Him, and not on the wind and the waves.

I asked Dr. Patel for some anxiety medication so I could sleep. I filled that prescription, but by the time evening came, I was at peace with the Lord. I slept soundly! And I haven't needed it yet.

My first post-cancer facebook post:

CT scan today shows 7 cm mass, likely lymphoma, in my left upper abdomen. Oncology appointment tomorrow pm. In the midst: "Forever God is faithful/strong/with us." Let's see what He has in store.

How do you care for someone who has cancer?

It seems that when "tragedy" hits, our hearts really go out to the "victim." In my case, lymphoma is mostly inconvenient, but it's still cancer. Now that I'm a few weeks into it, with just one chemo treatment under my belt, I'm trying to capture tips for my friends who want to come alongside and help me through it. Tips I'll need to remember when it's my turn to come alongside others when hard times hit.

In no particular order, but numbered for convenience:

1. Treat me like a human. I still am. I don't think I'm contageous. Thankfully, this hasn't really been an issue with my friends. But for children around me, I think I represent a cause for fear.

2. Do tell me you're praying for me (if you are). It's like a piece of candy to the soul. I love God, and I really feel like He loves me, a real nobody. I don't know how our prayers influence Him in His perfect care for us, but I'm convinced that it's part of His kindness to both me and you. When you say you're praying, that gives us a chance to converse about God and His activity in the world, in my life and yours.

3. If you're a co-worker, take me out to lunch, your treat. On my first day back from treatments, I don't feel like much, but I enjoy eating out. It would be a real treat for you to buy for me.

4. Believe me when I say I'm fine. I'll be honest with you. Life's too precious to go around faking things, you know? Just because it's cancer doesn't mean I'm going to die. I'm resting with God and trusting in the care of the doctors, who say I'll be fine.

5. Pace yourself. Early on, I had a lot to deal with, and a tidal wave of "anything I can do, let me know". I suspect that people will eventually forget about me. You know why I'm not asking when you offer "anything I can do, let me know?" It's because I can do most things. And the things I can't are difficult or time-consuming or otherwise very undesirable. But who knows, I may become disabled and need you to do hard things--work on the car, in the attic, laundry,...

7. Be my friend on facebook. That's the easiest way for me to keep you up to date. And I encourage you to post as you have good ideas. Be yourself. If you're motherly, then mother. If you're a joker, then joke. I treasure your thoughtful attention.

8. Call me when you want. Like you, I have caller ID and an answering machine. Don't worry about inconveniencing me. If I can't/don't want to answer the phone right now, please leave a message. I'll probably listen to it several times.

9. Don't shake hands...but do touch. Because germs are a real problem for me while I'm on chemo, please don't cough or sneeze or throw up on me either. The doctor said not to shake hands, and I really hate the distance that causes. I'd think a slap on the back or a touch on the arm would be fine, though.