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My charred Jimmy Dean muffin |
Thursday produced another restless night prompted by
profuse sweating and insomnia. I managed to get about two hours of sleep, then gave
up all hope of catching a few additional hours of shut-eye about 2:30 a.m. I retreated from my bedroom to the great
room, where reading, listening to music and drinking Sleepytime (Yea, right) hot
tea had become my new normal. I heard the Arkansas
Democrat-Gazette hit my front door at its usual time of 4:30 a.m. I was eager for new, more current reading
material. After just a few minutes of
scanning the newspaper, I began having difficulty concentrating on the words in
front of me. It was as if my brain was
hesitating and couldn’t translate what the eye was seeing to the human computer
between my ears. This frustrating
experience seemed to be happening more frequently since the chemotherapy
drugs - adriamycin and cytoxin - were first injected into my system in late
May.
Friends who recently completed chemotherapy and are now cancer
survivors have shared stories with me about the phenomenon referenced as "chemo
brain." Symptoms include forgetting words
in the middle of a spoken or written sentence; being unusually disorganized; a
short attention span; difficulty multitasking; a constant state of confusion; and,
short term memory issues. There was no
question that after only two treatments, I possessed many of the classic signs
of chemo brain. Well, that's just great. Now, I have to contend with no hair and an impaired brain.
After my futile attempts at reading the Friday morning
newspaper, I decided to take a shower and dress for what I expected to be a
busy day at the Arkansas Department of Parks and Tourism. The end of the state’s fiscal year was
quickly approaching and with it comes a multitude of accounting and year-end
purchasing tasks. I could only hope that
my brain was up for the challenge.
Typically, my day begins about 7:30 a.m., when I occupy my
office, turn on the computer and prepare for an onslaught of email messages and
questions from the staff. Before
tackling my responsibilities, I unlocked the door to the staff break room and decided
to microwave a Jimmy Dean breakfast - turkey sausage and egg on English muffin
- to lessen the potential hypoglycemic
effects of the insulin I injected 30 minutes earlier. I wrapped my breakfast in a paper towel and
placed it in the microwave and proceeded to key in 1 minute and 30 seconds on
defrost as the directions instructed.
I was feeling rather sluggish and decided a cup of java was
necessary to get me through the morning.
My friend Gloria’s office is the central location for fresh coffee. Since she is the executive assistant to the Department’s
executive director, there is always coffee available should legislators or
constituents show up for a meeting with “Mr. Big” and request a little caffeine
boost.
When I walked into Gloria’s office, she looked up and
started a conversation about my newest wig, which was celebrating its coming
out party on the first day of summer.
After a quick chat about the color and style of my synthetic locks, I
filled my coffee mug and headed to the break room to retrieve my breakfast
sandwich. I knew something was amiss
when I didn’t hear the microwave beeping, indicating that my Jimmy Dean muffin
was defrosted and ready for a quick ride on the microwave carousel for an additional
minute. (With chemo brain, I have also noticed
that “chemo mouth” comes into play, as well.)
“Oh, shit…shit, shit, shit,” I said repeatedly and loudly as I walked
over to the microwave. I could see smoke
inside the oven and immediately hit the cancel button. Not thinking (duh… I hadn’t done that clearly
in almost a month!), I opened the microwave door for a split second to glance at my damaged breakfast. I immediately shut it when I saw a quick puff of
sausage and egg-laced smoke billow out. And then the longest day of
the year became just that….
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The expansive Arkansas State Capitol grounds |
As luck would have it, Mr. Big (not quite the Sex in the
City version) and I bumped into each other in the hallway just
as the alarm started sounding. I fessed
up immediately and declared that I was the guilty party. He started laughing and said, “See you at the
bell,” which was the Department’s designated site, located just
north of the State Capitol.
Tourism Director Joe David Rice and I, as well as a few other
staff members, all exited out the front door of the building and walked
towards the bell. I could hear people griping about a fire drill before the
official start of the work day. Others
were thankful for the extra smoke break.
(It was difficult to hold my tongue when I heard that one.) As the staff, Joe David and I
approached our destination, it was already apparent that wig-wearing Marla had a
new reputation as the state employee who single handedly shut down state
government with a Jimmy Dean breakfast muffin. As we walked towards the bell, I did what any
guilt-laden person would do; I took a bow to applause and laughter. As we joined other Department employees, I
quickly defended myself by explaining that I had cancer and suffered from chemo
brain and wasn’t responsible for my actions.
Everyone started laughing because Mr. Big had already bet the group I
would use that exact justification.
Almost ten minutes had passed and the pre-recorded message
was still blaring over the loud
speakers. People continued to pour out of buildings, including the State
Capitol. As I watched nearly 1,000
employees cover the grounds of the vast state government campus, I recited a
prayer over and over to myself, “Please, Lord, don’t let Governor Beebe be among those forced to leave their offices.” I was envisioning an early
retirement.
There was something unusual about this evacuation from
previous fire drills. We had been
outside for nearly 15 minutes and there had been no sign of any fire
trucks. Even Mr. Big commented about the
lack of emergency vehicles. I continued to field jokes from every direction as
we waited…and waited… and waited for the “all clear” sign. Twenty minutes into this never-live-it-down
fiasco, we finally heard the sound of sirens, signaling the Little Rock Fire
Department was on its way. When I saw
two fire trucks, then the huge snorkel truck turn the corner, I was mortified
and terribly regretful for whatever transpired between the Jimmy Dean muffin
and the microwave.
Approximately 40 minutes after the first fire alarm sounded,
we were told it was safe to return to our offices. I requested that a human
shield surround me as we walked back to the Big MAC building in case I was
targeted by an irate state employee who wasn’t familiar with my positive,
easy-going demeanor or my pre-cancer, pre-chemo common sense. My colleagues complied.
Dozens of people asked me what happened. The only thing I could figure out was that my nimble fingers entered 11 minutes and 30 seconds on the microwave keypad, instead of 1 minute and 30 seconds. Everything happened so fast, I wasn’t really sure about the details.
Dozens of people asked me what happened. The only thing I could figure out was that my nimble fingers entered 11 minutes and 30 seconds on the microwave keypad, instead of 1 minute and 30 seconds. Everything happened so fast, I wasn’t really sure about the details.
When Gloria and I re-entered the Big MAC building, there
were several firemen in the hallway. I
avoided eye contact for fear they would whisk me away and make an example out
of me. We entered the front door to the Department
and were overwhelmed by a putrid odor.
How could one breakfast sandwich cause such a ruckus, I wondered.
I decided to return to the scene of the incident only to
find the charred remains of my breakfast exposed on the microwave table. I said a quick prayer because it was apparent that a potential disaster was averted. As I stared at what was left of the sandwich, my chemo-impaired brain tried to
comprehend all that had happened in a mere 45 minutes. As I shoved the
blackened Jimmy Dean muffin into the trash can, an Arkansas Building Authority
representative walked into the break room.
He asked if I was responsible for what had happened; I admitted that
I was. He said he would remove the trash
bag, which would help eliminate the foul smell in the front section of
offices. I thanked him then he told me
that an incident report would have to be filed detailing the morning’s events. I gave him my business card, which contained all the requested information. I immediately explained to him that I was undergoing
chemotherapy and my decision-making skills were impaired. I also told him if he attempted to chastise
or lecture me, I could guarantee that I would burst into tears,
which was true. He said he understood
and left with my business card in hand. Geez… an incident report. Apparently, I was going to have a "record" of sorts.
A few minutes later, I passed a State Capitol police officer
in the Department hallway. I
avoided eye contact as he walked past me.
He did an about face and returned to the desk of a staff member. He asked who he should talk to about the “incident.”
I saw her glance my way. I walked up and
identified myself. He wanted me to know
that a report would have to be filed. (Hearing the term “incident report” twice in
less than five minutes made me wonder if a mug shot would soon follow.) I handed
him a business card. The officer went on to tell me there was actually a silver
lining to the microwave debacle. He
said the fire alarm system malfunctioned and didn’t automatically dispatch the
Little Rock Fire Department as programmed.
He explained that was the reason for the extended wait in the morning
heat. The State Capitol Police Department was
forced to manually dispatch the fire department, which should never happen. Officer Nice Guy indicated the faulty alarm system
would be the focus of the incident report, rather than my inability to accurately
punch time into a microwave keypad. I
thanked him for attempting to make my day a little brighter. He smiled and told me not to worry about it. Sure, I thought, no need to be stressed about the role I played in emptying state government offices for 45 minutes and becoming the butt of endless
jokes every time an emergency vehicle approached the State Capitol.
When the work day finally ended and I walked to the waiting
elevator, I heard a co-worker say, “Have a good weekend, Muffin.” My punishment had begun and would undoubtedly
continue for years to come.
I learned the hard way that chemo brain is real and can lead to risky behavior.
It’s a side effect of chemotherapy that can complicate the simplest tasks. From forgetting
a word mid-sentence to finding it difficult to recall a colleague’s name when standing
face-to-face with the person, chemo brain is ever present in those of us undergoing
treatment. We can only hope that
friends, family and co-workers understand when we sometimes look at them
blankly. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.