The Week from Hell

 Chemo Tuesday: Part 3

(Now featuring Monday. Because of course it does.)

Zoe and I continued our bonding. From Bal Harbour to chemo hell.

This week’s adventure began with Zoe behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat, and Apple Maps doing its best to launch us into an early grave. I also forgot to take my Wellbutrin and Concerta, so my brain was hosting a full-blown rave while my nervous system white-knuckled its way into Chestnut Hill.

But we made it.

9:30 a.m. labs.
Should’ve stayed in bed.

Classic routine: If the lab tech doesn’t get it on the first try, it’s automatically my fault. Today’s tech missed the port on the first go, then gave me the full lecture—because I flinched when the needle pierced my actual skin.  Shocking, I know. My bad for reacting like a human.

Second try, same hole, no flinch—because pain is a great teacher—and wow, it magically worked.  Must’ve still been my fault though, right?

She wrapped it all up with:
“You’re a very interesting person.”
Thank you? No idea what that meant, but I filed it under backhanded compliments from people holding needles.

10:30 a.m. oncology appointment.
Except… nope. She was running 30–40 minutes behind. Then 45. Then an hour.

In the end?
An hour and a half late.

Nothing says quality care like asking patients to show up on time ON CHEMO DAY, follow the schedule, fast if needed, plan their entire week around one day—and then completely disregard that schedule like it's optional.

This isn’t a haircut. This isn’t a dentist appointment.
This is cancer treatment. It takes all day and everything we have.  So yeah, when I sit there for 90 minutes waiting to be seen, I don’t just feel forgotten—I feel dismissed.

But sure, I’m the one expected to smile and be grateful.

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Infusion itself? Surprisingly uneventful.

No more waiting between drugs to see if I sprout hives or spontaneously combust. Just a smooth, factory-line rollout of poison:

• Hour 1: Pre-meds, anti-nausea, steroids, IV fluids
• Hour 2: Taxotere
• 30 minutes: Carboplatin
• 30 minutes: Herceptin
• 30 minutes: Perjeta
• Neulasta monitor snapped on
• Done.

A breezy 3.5 hours.
Practically a spa day.
If your spa day includes feeling your cells implode one by one while trying to look chill about it.

Except because of the late start, we got the full Route 9 through Boston detour - including Mass Pike, 93, Tobin Bridge, 128 experience on the way home.
Two hours of gridlock.  There’s nothing quite like being pumped full of chemo, bloated with saline, and stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic while your body quietly whispers,
“This was a terrible mistake.”

And I could tell—this time was different.

Everything slowed down.
Brain fog turned into full-on static.
No desire to write. No interest in TV, music, scrolling. Nothing.
Just a body running on 2% battery and the spinning beach ball of doom.

Cumulative?
Sure. Let’s pretend that word is strong enough.

Chemo is out here doing everything it promised—  except killing the cancer without also killing me.

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Then Friday Hit.

And so did everything else.

The nausea? Uncontrollable.
Vomiting, dry heaving, zero sleep.
None of the meds worked. Not the go-to, not the backup, not the “this one always works” option. They all just shrugged and left me on the bathroom floor.

By Saturday and Sunday, the runs showed up early.
By Monday, I was clearly dehydrated—dizzy, dry, done.

So I started the classic post-chemo game:
"Find Someone Who Will Actually Help."

Called Dana-Farber.
Silence. (but the message says is was read at 6:54 AM)
It’s 11:30 a.m.—still no response.

Called my primary care. They told me to go through oncology. I told them oncology has ghosted me. Somehow convinced them to squeeze me in today.

So now, Monday afternoon I’m dragging myself in to beg for an IV bag, some fluids, maybe even VNA home care. Just a lifeline. Something.

As for the cumulative effect of chemo?
Round three hit like a truck.

And yeah, I’ve been warned it gets worse every time. But hearing it and living it? Not the same.

Right now, I don’t know how I’ll do round four.
But I will.
Because I always do.

Still—today, I get to say:
This sucked. This wrecked me.
And no, I don’t need a pep talk. I need a break.
Or a damn IV.

To be continued... after rehydration. Possibly reincarnation.

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Now for the good stuff. The love. The laughs. The thank-yous.

First, my cousin Erica—who’s more like a sister—drove all the way up from West Virginia to take care of me. She paid it forward… or maybe backward? Either way, she showed up like family does.

(P.S. If anyone has a spare kidney lying around, she’s on the hunt. I’ve been told I’m not a match—still unclear why. I’m charming, dependable, blood type fabulous… seems like a no-brainer. But fine.)

She came just in time to see me on my good day before chemo hit, and we had an actual, honest-to-god fun time. Real laughs. Zero vomit. Gold star.

Her sister Tracy (my other sister from another mister) was part of the joy parade too. Between the two of them, I was fed, hugged, entertained, and had every craving delivered directly to my couch like I’m some chemo-glazed queen.

And then—Anne. Anne, you glorious human.

She sent this absolutely incredible gift box filled with cozy socks, cookies, a blanket, coloring books, and… wait for it… a puzzle.

Now I don’t know if you’re a puzzle person, but let me just say: neither was I.

Until we cracked open that box and suddenly… magic.

What started with me and Erica turned into a full-on family puzzle-palooza:
Sam, Francesca, Chip (yes, Chip!), and Zoe all joined in.

And now Laurie’s here from San Francisco, and guess what?
Still no desire to write, watch TV, or scroll anything— but puzzles? Puzzles I can do. Puzzles we can all do.  And we’re weirdly into it.

That said—don’t go rogue and send me a mountain of puzzles. Zoe and Erica already restocked me like I’m opening a boutique puzzle café.

BUT if you’ve done one and want to trade, hit me up.
Puzzle swap = my kind of party                                       

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And speaking of being fed and spoiled…

Captain Katie came in hot Wednesday night—with dinner delivered all the way from Boston. When she said sushi, I honestly thought she was kidding.

I mean… she reads the blog, right?

We’ve been over this. Chemo and sushi? Not exactly besties.

But nope—she wasn’t joking.

And guess what?

Turns out chemo likes good sushi. Like, real sushi. Boston sushi. Not that Bal Harbour sushi situation, which we now know is absolutely not chemo-approved.

And whatever Pinot Noir she sent with it?

Also approved. By me. By chemo. By the spirits of my neutrophils.

(Remember—it was Wednesday. Still riding the steroid wave. Still functional. Still able to chew, swallow, and pretend wine is hydration.)

So Katie—thank you. You nailed it.

Sushi, wine, and the joy of being surprised by something that actually tasted good during chemo week. That’s a damn miracle.

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And flowers…

You know I can never have too many of those. Ever.  These last couple weeks brought some absolute stunners—bright spots in the chaos, literally.

Thank you to Marianne, Krysti, Margie AND V2 for sending such beautiful arrangements.

All so different. All so thoughtful. All amazing.  You’d think I’d run out of space, but nope.

I will always make room for more flowers.

They make the house prettier, they make the days softer, and honestly—they make me feel like I’m starring in my own slightly tragic but well-decorated indie film.  Keep them coming.

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And let’s not forget the fresh eggs.

One of the few things I can actually keep down—and even better when I’ve got a reliable egg dealer network in place.

Huge shoutout to Renee and Laurie J for keeping me stocked this round. 

Seriously, it’s like farm-to-table, but make it chemo-chic. Scrambled, poached, boiled—chemo doesn’t care, it says yes to eggs.

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Oh—and then there’s my newest kitten from Laurie J.

Not a real one. A plush, lavender scented, microwave friendly one. But honestly? This little squish might be my new emotional support animal.

Look at that face—equal parts judgmental and soothing.

Soft, huggable, smells like calm and comfort, and doesn’t shed or attack Oscar.  10/10. Highly recommend.  Laurie J., you nailed it.

He’s currently tucked into bed with me, serving emotional stability and spa energy in one furry little package.

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And now, a standing ovation for Laurie P.

Flew in from San Francisco and immediately earned the title of Saint, Lead Stylist, Personal Chauffeur, and Human Xanax.

She arrived bearing a Jo Malone diffuser, because clearly she understands that chemo homes need to smell like expensive calm. Then she stepped straight into her role as Zoe’s personal stylist, navigating Nordstrom Rack with the patience of an actual monk. If you’ve ever tried shopping with Zoe while she’s on a mission, you know this was no small feat.

She chauffeured me to the doctor’s office for IV fluids—cheerfully, patiently, lovingly—even though the entire mission was an epic fail. (More on that dumpster fire above and below.)

But wait, there’s more.

She folded my laundry.
She cleaned my cat’s litter box.
She doesn’t even have pets.
And yet, there she was—scooping cat shit like a pro, no complaints, no hesitation, just saint-level grace.

Meanwhile, Chip’s stance on litter boxes?
“Not my job.”

Laurie P. didn’t flinch.
Didn’t gag.
Didn’t back away slowly while holding her breath.
She just did it.
Because sometimes, the best kind of love shows up with rubber gloves and a strong stomach.  Laurie brought grace under pressure, a designer scent, and the stamina of a Navy SEAL.

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And now, the IV fluid debacle continues. Otherwise known as: “I’d rather dehydrate in peace than puke in traffic.”

So this has been brewing. For days.

And today I learned a few fun facts—courtesy of Jacqueline, the PA at my primary care who, to be clear, I actually really like. But today she hit me with this gem:

“Just to play devil’s advocate… you’re being a little stubborn.”

Me?

Stubborn?

Shocking.

I had just called Dana-Farber stubborn for making everything so complicated, so she had to keep it balanced. But let’s walk through the logic together, shall we?

I say: If I could sit in a car for three hours without vomiting or shitting myself, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

If I’m asking for fluids, it means I’m not okay.

If I say, “Hey, I think I might need fluids,” that’s the equivalent of a five-alarm fire in my world.

Because let’s be real—I don’t ask for anything.

I don’t whine. I don’t cry wolf.

So if I’m sending emails at 6:30 a.m. asking for help?

That’s urgent.

Apparently not urgent enough, though, because Dana-Farber didn’t get back to me until 1:30.

Why? Because I didn’t say the actual word URGENT!

I’m now being told that someone is going to “talk to me” about the importance of using the U-word in my messages moving forward.

I’d like to suggest a compromise:

If I ask for anything—anything at all—just treat that as urgent.

Because the minute I’m requesting help, something is definitely off.

Otherwise, I will continue quietly crawling toward death with a smile on my face and an Starbucks Passion Iced Tea (yes Nurse Kristina, no caffeine)  in my hand.

Also, they keep hyper-focusing on the fact that I have “diarrhea,” as if I’m gushing water every five minutes. I’m not.

Yes, it’s a thing, but I’m not concerned about the poop—I’m concerned about dehydration from the overall cluster. That’s what’s making me feel like trash. That’s why I asked for fluids. That’s why I’m refusing to drive to Dana-Farber and risk becoming a mobile biohazard.

As of now—3:40 p.m.—we still have no plan.

No clear solution.

No clue what they’re calling in.

And yes, I promise next time we’ll have a system in place.

A plan.

A secret code word.

A neon sign.

Whatever it takes.

But today?

I’m staying home, staying horizontal, and staying stubborn.

And honestly? That feels like the healthiest decision I’ve made all week.

So what is the outcome prior to me hitting send to this blog.

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So, what's the plan now?

Because I love a plan.

New Meds:

• Olanzapine – Nausea whisperer, anti-vomit ninja, and bonus sedative when my brain won't shut up.
• Dexamethasone Mouth Rinse – Steroid warrior. Fights inflammation, boosts nausea control, might make me reorganize my closet at 1 AM (SIDE NOTE: I actually ended waking up at 1 AM and eating peanut m&m’s 👶)

IV Fluids:

• Dana-Farber: Currently holding the line. 0 bags.
• Primary Care: Promises a callback in the morning for a local option. TBD.
• Outcome: Unknown. Victory unclear. I am not currently winning.

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Challenge Question:

What’s the most dehydrated you’ve ever been—
and what did you do to fix it?

Passed out during a hike? Got heat stroke at the beach? Ate bad seafood on vacation and had to crawl to a gas station for Gatorade?

Drop your driest story.
Let me know I’m not alone in the desert of indignity.

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