Chemo Day #3

This morning, I woke up at 6:00am, as usual. I hopped in the shower, threw on some natural-looking makeup, jeans, and a button-down shirt. I’m not normally a button-down kind of gal—I don’t like the way they wrinkle or the way they feel with a sweater on top. My mom loves button-down shirts. They’re part of her daily uniform. This sartorial disagreement is probably the biggest difference between us, since we’re alike in almost every other way…

But on chemo days, a button-down is a must. Nurses need easy access to my chemo port, which is an implanted device above my right breast that allows long-term access to a vein. The port allows nurses and doctors to draw blood and give medications intravenously without having to stick me multiple times with a needle. Instead of a human pin cushion, I’m like a machine you can just plug in. A cancer-fighting robot.

After saying goodbye to Jordan and Peter (Winston was sleeping in), I hopped in my car and made the ten-minute drive down France Avenue to Fairview Hospital. It was a beautiful morning: Mid 60’s, the orange-yolk morning sun shining, and not a cloud in the sky. “Road to Nowhere” by the Talking Heads played on Spotify. (I’ve been listening to more music lately. I’ve always loved music, but over the last few years, I started listening to a lot of political podcasts. I was getting high on the madness of the world and feeling sure-footed in my views was intoxicating. But these days, it feels so silly to complain about the world while fighting so badly to keep living in it).

I pulled into the familiar parking lot, pressed the button to spit out my ticket, and placed it in my usual spot on the center console. I found a parking spot close to the entrance and headed through the double glass doors, hooked a left to the elevator bank, and rode up to the sixth floor—the cancer floor. Floor 6 of the Physicians Building at 6363 France Avenue is where I encounter the least amount of sympathy. Everyone has cancer here, so no one gets special treatment. And there’s something kind of refreshing about that.

I checked in with the receptionist and answered all the usual questions… Name? Samantha Kaupa. Birthdate? 12/12/1988. Any flu-like symptoms today? Nope. Then I preemptively held out my right arm so the nurse could tag me with the wristband she’d just printed off. The wristband has a barcode on it so that the nurses can scan in all the medications they give me… Again, cancer-fighting robot… Boop-boop-beep-boop.

After being adequately labeled, I sat down and waited until a nurse called my name and brought me back to what I call the “chemo lounge.” The chemo lounge is on the northeast corner of the building. It’s lined with windows and seven stone gray leather recliners. Each recliner is separated by gray and white privacy curtains that don’t actually give you much privacy, just the idea of privacy. The nurses’ station is at the center of the room, equipped with five computers and chairs for these always friendly robot technicians. There are a few mobile workstations as well, each equipped with a computer monitor, keyboard, and the barcode scanner (just like the ones at a grocery store). There are also mobile IV units. And mobile blood pressure monitors. Come to think of it, pretty much everything in the room is on wheels—the patient recliners, nurses’ chairs, stools, medical equipment… If the foundation of the building gave even slightly, you’d know. The contents of the entire room would roll in one direction like a game of Hungry, Hungry Hippos played on a soft mattress.

The nurse always lets you pick where you sit. I have my usual corner spot that gets flooded with light, especially early in the morning. I love morning sunlight… it’s on the list of things I appreciate more now. There’s just something beautiful about the quality of the light… Heavenly. Sublime. It’s the kind of light that reminds you God is real—or at least makes you believe in the possibility.

I plopped my backpack down next to my chair, marking my territory. I always bring my backpack to chemo visits. I bought it right after I found out I had cancer and was going to undergo long sessions of chemotherapy. It’s a black JanSport backpack with pink ribbons on it (get it?). Inside, you’ll find a collection of books I still haven’t read, coloring books that still haven’t been colored in, my laptop, an empty planner, and brand-new jelly pens for said planner. I thought I would have lots of down time during these long chemo sessions. But it turns out that I have too many supportive people in my life who want to be there for me. That’s Minnesota for you.

I’ve learned that Minnesotans (in my experience) are eagerly supportive people. And they are supportive in very classic ways. They visit, send cards, deliver meals, and call you on the phone to see how you’re doing. If “Ways to Support a Loved One” were a Family Feud category, the Minnesotans would have no trouble coming up with the top answers.

It’s a little different in California, where I’m from. Californians show love in a more cautious way. Californians are all about giving you your space, not wanting to be intrusive or make you feel obligated to respond to a card, a text, or (God forbid) a phone call. They’re the type to reach their hand out and let you sniff it… let you come to them when you feel safe and ready. They also like a good middleman—for example, telling my mom that they hope I’m doing okay and letting her relay the message.

Minnesotans are the grandmas who pinch you on the cheek. Californians are the cool cousins who you can have a drink with and not have to say anything to. And I mean this from the bottom of my heart: both are equally valid and effective forms of love. I’m lucky to have the balance of both. All from one side or another would be too much or too little.

The first step of the chemo process, after scanning me into the computer, is to draw some blood to check all my levels. The nurses need to be sure that my body is strong enough to get chemotherapy. Fortunately, my levels were great today, so we were able to proceed. I wasn’t all that surprised since it’s been over four weeks now since I had treatment. I feel fit as a fiddle. And while I appreciate feeling healthy after weeks of being in the doldrums of sickness, it also makes me feel vulnerable. If I feel healthy, maybe the cancer does too…

After the lab results, it’s time for the chemo to begin. Now, when people say “chemo” they are using it as a blanket term. My “chemo” regimen actually consists of three different drugs. The first is called “Taxotere” and is a true chemotherapy drug, meaning that it works on a cellular level to target actual cancer cells. But I also receive two non-chemotherapy drugs called “Herceptin” and “Perjeta.” These are antibody drugs that target the HER2 protein present in my specific kind of cancer to keep them from growing. These latter two drugs are far less toxic than the chemo drug, which is why I will be able to take them for an indefinite period of time after we drop the Taxotere in another 3-5 rounds.

I hope some of that made sense?

Personally, I find it interesting how little I knew about chemo before this all started. I thought the tangential experience I had through watching others go through chemo (my father, stepfather, and characters in movies) was enough. That was also how I felt about pregnancy and childbirth. As a woman, you just know these things, right? Wrong. It wasn’t until I got pregnant that I learned you don’t have to get to the hospital within five minutes of your contractions starting. The odds of your baby getting born in the back of the car are pretty low, contrary to most movies I’d seen. Typically, there’s a lot more waiting. Coincidentally, there’s a lot of waiting with chemo, too.

Each drug takes between 30 minutes to an hour to administer. They start with the non-chemo drugs and save the Taxotere for last. During this last hour, I put on my compression socks and gloves and they attach ice bags to my hands and feet. This helps reduce my risk of neuropathy, a possible side effect from the Taxotere. It sounds cold and awful, but it’s really not that bad. They drape heated blankets over me and use an air pump to blow hot air under the covers. It’s a pretty nice setup!

As all the drugs trickle through my port and into my veins, I simply wait. Usually, I pass the time chatting with visitors (Jordan, my mom, Jamie), or doing crossword puzzles on my phone, ignoring the plethora of goodies tucked neatly in my backpack. Today is the first time I don’t have any visitors. Jordan is on Peter watch. Jamie is working. My mom gets in later tonight. But I am perfectly content passing the time on my own. I’m cozy under warm blankets and until they strap the ice bags to my extremities, I can finally get some writing done. It’s funny how little time I have to write during the week. Newborns are relatively easy, but very time consuming!

Believe it or not, I actually like chemo days. During these three to four hours, I can relax while the life-saving drugs work their magic. These are the days I take real action against the cancer. The days in between are filled with more waiting. And wondering. So, getting a little me-time in a light-soaked room with nice people bringing me warm blankets and tea while I kick some cancer butt… well, that sounds like a pretty good day to me.