Things really took a nosedive this week. When I saw my radiation oncologist after my treatment on Tuesday, she said it was time to pull out the big guns–namely, Oxycodone. “You want to stay ahead of the pain during these last two weeks,” she explained. I was wary, as I’d experienced some unpleasant side effects from opioids before (mostly severe nausea), but acquiesced. Then, like clockwork, after my second dose of Oxy yesterday, I felt immediately faint, feverish, and dizzy. I broke into a cold sweat and had to lie down on the couch. Dry heaves followed shortly thereafter (I don’t have a whole lot in my system these days).
Unfortunately, conditions did not improve. When I went to my radiation appointment in the afternoon, I looked and felt awful. My radiation tech noticed immediately, and said we’d go back to consult with the nurse after my treatment. She also acknowledged that I’ve been doing really great so far, commenting that many people look and feel the way I did much earlier in the course of their treatment. This was an odd consolation, but I was willing to take it. When we later met with the nurse, she confirmed that everything I was experiencing was pretty normal at this stage of the game, and was likely to get still worse (not exactly what you want to hear when you feel like you might pass out in your chair). She decided to schedule me for my first infusion, which was earlier today.
This ended up being the first time since my surgery that I’ve actually felt like a cancer patient (which is to say, weak, awful, and exhausted). The hospital’s “infusion center” is a startlingly crowded ward of little, curtained IV stations. I sat in my designated recliner, bracing myself for one of the things I’ve come to dread most: nurses trying to find a vein. I’ve inherited notoriously small, deep, hidden veins from my mother, and it’s always a challenge for someone drawing blood or sticking me for anything else to find them.
Apparently, the anxiety surrounding this relatively routine procedure, combined with my general fatigue and depletion from radiation, was enough to trigger my second episode of what I’ve now learned is an actual condition: Vasovagal syncope. As soon as the nurse inserted the IV (which she was able to do on the first try), I became faint, dizzy, and nauseous. I passed out briefly, and came back to with a violent fit of vomiting. This also happened a few months ago, when my surgeon was taking out the stitches in my neck. He thought I was having a minor seizure. Because I barfed all over the front of my own shirt, I had to throw it in the bio-waste bin and leave his office in an open-backed hospital gown and jeans. I received some strange looks in the elevator, and one guy even asked if I was making my escape.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen today (the barfing on my own shirt part, anyway). I did throw up, but the nurse had a bag at the ready when I told her I struggled with needles. She was patient and kind, which helped calm me considerably. I sat for an hour, getting a simple saline drip to replenish the fluids my body has steadily lost over the past few weeks. They also threw some morphine and Zofran into the mix, so I was like a groggy zombie by the time we left.
Now, several hours later and the afternoon’s radiation appointment behind me, I’m feeling *slightly* better. Baby steps, just like Bob.
Well, then 