Of course the alarm didn't go off, so we got up an hour late. For me to get ready in 10 minutes is no problem, but I'd never believed Nick could. And he fed the animals. And made me a cup of tea.
The first appointment was with the coiffeuse. We were only 5 minutes late. She was 15 minutes late -- and hadn't ordered the wigs. A misunderstanding, she said. Maybe it's my accent. Oh, well, back next week.
Here's the routine at the hospital: Show up, wait an hour, get a bed, get anti-nausea medication dripped into you, get first real med dripped (1 hour), get second drip (3 hours), get next drip (1 hour), go home. No drama, no sickness, no nothing. Well, a tiny comedy. When the nurse inserted the needle into the CAP (thank you, Karen) in my chest, she said to take a deep breath, expand my chest and hold it. She got the needle in (I felt nothing) and asked if it was O.K. I nodded. No pain? I shook my head. Suddenly she said, "Breathe!" Well, geez! She hadn't said. Ha ha ha! We all had a hearty laugh.
They gave me lunch. To go with anti-nausea meds? "Eat," they said. I ate. I was mobile, but there was no place to go except for the bathroom, which you do a lot when they keep pouring liquid into you.
I had a roommate for the afternoon. They were testing her for Alzheimers. They finished the tests just before lunch and she had to wait around in the room for 5 hours, poor thing, to get the results from the doctor. She didn't go shout at anyone, even once. Her exemplary behaviour was rewarded; she doesn't have Alzheimers. Her husband, though, had colon cancer which has metastasized into the liver where it is too deep for them to operate. The man has been having chemo every two weeks since February, plus some sort of home chemo for the 48 hours after his hospital visit. He is not as chipper as I. Nor would I be. I'll probably meet him one day when our paths cross.
At first I didn't want to know, but it was interesting to hear how he felt and his reactions. Not to mention that, if they're successfully struggling to keep him alive, I might have a great future in front of me.
In the waiting room in the morning, I talked to another woman who was told, four years ago, that she was going to die. Four years and four rounds of chemo later and she's still here.
These are the sorts of stories to which my mother's reaction was, "I know you're in the hospital and you're bored, but, really, this isn't great conversation." Then, again, at the time, I was telling her about someone who'd died in my room during the night.
Nick came with me and went out to do a little shopping during the day. Next time I'll take a taxi. We left home at 7:45am and returned at 8:15pm. Waste of time for him.
They sent me home with prescriptions for Zophren in tablet form (the anti-nausea drug that was in the drip), which I am to take for 5 days whether I need it or not; a prescription for Domperidone in case the Zophren isn't enough, and gallons of bicarbonate solution to gargle with 10 times (!) a day. Not sure I'm going to make 10.
To make a friend happy -- to get her off my back -- I've allowed my mother-in-law to send me a packet of travel bands to help prevent nausea. They "work" through accupressure. And I am wearing them. I'm not nauseated, but how do I know if it's the bands?
Since starting this post, lunch time has come and gone. I have my first symptom; I'm not hungry. I can't believe this; they ought to market it. As my lack of appetite is likely to continue, I can see where the chocolate muffin and ice cream diet is the way to go. Roll on, tea time!
(More pictures here.)