Marla Crider receiving her final chemo treatment at UAMS! |
My brother, Marion, and sister-in-law, Carolyn, made the
180-mile trip from Northwest Arkansas to join
me in what I hoped to be the afterglow of my final treatment. My appointment for the routine blood work was
scheduled for 8 a.m. Fortunately, the
early morning hour provided me an opportunity to visit the nearby Dunkin’
Donuts and pick up several dozen tasty treats for the staff at the infusion
center and Dr. Makhoul’s office, just to express my gratitude for their exceptional
care over the past four months. This was
one delivery I was looking forward to making.
When my family and I arrived at the infusion center waiting
area, there were only a few other patients in the room. My name was called
almost immediately. And just as I had done seven times previously, I walked
through the infusion room door and stepped on the scales for my weigh-in. I was pleased to see that my “fighting” weight
had not fluctuated. I was escorted to a
vacant recliner and awaited the arrival of an RN to make the required blood
draw. A few minutes had passed when the
Asian nurse, the professional who weeks earlier resolved my painful port issue,
reported to my chair and began the process of filling vials with my poison
enriched blood. It surprised me when the
efficient nurse commented that my final chemo treatment was scheduled in a few
hours. She congratulated me for making
it through the past months with few problems.
Completing chemotherapy truly is an accomplishment, not just for the
patient, but also for the medical staff.
The next order of business was an appointment with my
oncologist. When my family and I arrived
in the waiting area, I was overcome with a sense of apprehension. For the past
18 weeks, I had placed my life in the capable hands of Dr. Issam Makhoul. It suddenly dawned on me that he wouldn't be
by my side when the next step of the treatment plan was implemented - surgery. As strange as it may sound, I felt as though
my security blanket was being taken away and it frightened me just a little. Don,
my significant other and a consummate physician himself, explained that it isn't
unusual for patients to bond with their doctors when in a life threatening
situation, which made perfect sense to me.
After a short wait, my name was called and a nurse’s
assistant escorted Don and me to one of Dr. Makhoul’s exam cubicles. Brenda, his effervescent RN, came in and gave
me a huge hug because it was graduation day…from chemo. She made notes in my electronic file
concerning my previous treatment and the side effects I experienced. My response was becoming routine – extreme
bone pain, diarrhea and insomnia. I did
share that the prescription Dr. Makhoul prescribed to help control the night
sweats – Venlafaxine - was working quite well. The sweats had been less intense
and frequent. Brenda was pleased with
the results. She handed me a gown and
told me to prepare for my exam.
A few minutes later, Dr. Makhoul entered the room and
greeted Don and me. “Today is your final
treatment, correct?” he asked. “You better believe it,” I responded. He laughed and accused me of trying to get
rid of him (If he only knew it was quite the opposite). He reviewed the blood work from an hour
earlier and said it was “excellent.” He
said I had an amazing constitution to have come through more than four months
of chemotherapy with so few battle scars. I told him it was due to lots of
prayers from family, friends and acquaintances and my mom, Happy, encouraging
me every step of the way from heaven above.
Dr. Makhoul’s comment also made me think of my dad, the man who said
little but whose look and twinkle in his eye spoke volumes. I could imagine him side-by-side with my mom,
rolling an unlit Roi-Tan cigar in his mouth (are cigars allowed in heaven,
unlit or otherwise?), smiling down at his baby girl with confidence that she was
going to kick some cancer butt. It is those mental images that have kept me
motivated throughout the process.
Dr. Makhoul examined me, carefully checking for any lymph
node swelling in my neck or unusual breathing or heart activity. He then manipulated my right breast to
determine the location and size of the mass.
This time he didn't even bother to use his handy-dandy caliper to
measure the tumor. “The tumor is at .5
centimeters, even if that. I’m not so
sure that it isn't just scar tissue that I’m feeling,” he announced. It was music to my ears. Dr. Makhoul suggested scheduling an updated
breast MRI to determine the status of the cancer. In addition, he said that my breast surgeon,
Dr. Klimberg, would need the MRI for review prior to the mastectomy surgery.
As our time together came to a close, I asked Dr. Makhoul
the protocol for scheduling appointments with him in the future. He said he would see me at least once more
before the surgery and then he hoped he never had to see me professionally
again. From his lips to God’s ears, I
thought to myself. We exchanged
good-byes and then he quickly departed to see another patient, while Don,
Marion, Carolyn and I returned to the infusion center for my last intravenous
procedure.
The early morning schedule for blood work and time with Dr.
Makhoul allowed me the opportunity to move in and out of the appointments
quickly. But it also placed me back at
the infusion room when the majority of patients were waiting to have their blood
drawn. It was only appropriate that I would have to wait for my last chemo
treatment. After more than an hour, a nurse’s aide called my name. Carolyn and I followed her to a recliner in
the front section of the room, which meant that Mr. Nurse Ratched would not be
administering my last treatment. I was disappointed. Instead, the knowledgeable
Asian nurse was assigned to my case. She handed me three steroid pills to take
with water while she hooked me up to additional anti-nausea drugs
intravenously. In addition, she injected
me with a large dose of Benadryl to counter any allergic reactions. As soon as the antihistamine hit my system, I
immediately began giggling, as I had done in the past. It was as if I had been given the liquid form
of laughing gas. When I started laughing, others around me joined in, as well. It is said that laughter is contagious. It’s true and what better place to have an epidemic
of hilarity than in a cancer treatment center.
After five minutes or so, the laughter subsided and we moved
on to the serious task of infusing the Taxol.
Carolyn, Marion and Don alternated sitting with me for the three-hour
ordeal. As I watched the last of the Taxol drip slowly into my veins, my
emotions fluctuated between joy and trepidation. I was so ready to have this part of the
wellness program behind me; however, I had yet to prepare myself mentally for
the pending mastectomies. One thing at a
time, I told myself. As the efficient
Asian nurse unhooked the tubes from my port, I sighed. Phase one of the treatment plan was complete.
End of chemo celebration! Pictured (from right to left) Marla Crider with boyfriend, Don Vowell, brother, Marion Crider and sister-in-law, Carolyn Crider. |
Just like clockwork, the dreaded diarrhea hit me on day two
after the treatment and the uncomfortable bone pain followed on day three. My pelvis, knees and shins felt like there
were little goblins inside trying to chisel their way out. In addition, the fatigue peaked on day three,
so much so that I didn't have the energy to report to work on Monday. I took pain meds and slept most of the day,
which enabled me to return to the office the following day. In week two after
the final chemo session, I was energized both mentally and physically. Part of that was due to the fact that I had
started sleeping four to five hours a night without the assistance of
medications. I was ecstatic and even had a bounce in my step. I was finally on my way to feeling like the
new and about-to-be- improved Marla.
When I first received the cancer diagnosis in early May, I was
filled with countless emotions, such as fear and uncertainty. Of course, there was no question that I was going
to fight with everything in my being to be cancer free, but there was a part of
me that was dreading the cure – chemotherapy.
However, I can honestly say that the aches, pains, fatigue, diarrhea,
hair loss, night sweats, sleep deprivation, and ummmm…… oh, yes, chemo brain have
all been worth it. Chemotherapy and the UAMS
medical team who prescribed and administered it saved my life. Now, on to the next phase of this
journey…surgery.