At the end of July I came down with a cold.
On Sunday, July 31, our hospital and a local funeral home held a Memorial Service, as part of their program, In God’s Arms, for all the babies who died this past spring. That wasn’t easy. It’s so hard to process this in the middle of fighting cancer. Our little Gabriella Joy is buried at the Southlawn Cemetery. I like the idea of visiting when I’m past this blah of cancer and I can really grieve. Thank you to all of the friends and family who came out and supported us. We are truly blessed to have each one of you in our lives. I wish I had the words to express how loved and comforted we were by your presence.
Just an hour after the Memorial Service I had to begin prep for my colonoscopy. I’ll let you google that if you haven’t had the joy of experiencing it.
On Monday morning we checked into the hospital and I had my exam. Good times.
On Tuesday morning I woke up and headed to my fifth chemo treatment, which included my new mix of drugs. Yuck!
I slept through most of Wednesday, until my On-Body Injector of Neulasta went off. More good times.
On Thursday I spent most of the day crying and rocking back and forth as I tried to master the pain of Taxol and Neulasta.
On Friday morning we checked into the hospital again, but this time to have my heart tested. It is very hard to sit through an echocardiogram while suffering from something like restless leg syndrome with knives.
Finally, Friday night I couldn’t take the pain anymore and we had some awesome drugs called in. I slept like a baby Friday night.
Saturday and Sunday were great. I was able to get out of the house and hit up the zoo. Those drugs were amazing.
Then Monday, August 8th came and I crashed. I was back in the doctor’s office a day or two later with really low numbers. That cold never went away. They gave me some fluids and antibiotics and sent me home to rest, which I did all week. I slept for a week. I was finally starting to feel better around Monday, August 15. That’s how long it took. So I took Kiersten on a little back-to-school shopping and lunch date. I felt amazing. Almost like my old self. It was awesome.
On August 16 we went to have my sixth treatment and I felt amazing. They drew my labs and I met with the doctor. I couldn’t not believe how well I felt and everyone kept commenting on it. It was like I had never had chemo and I was “normal.” I went through the appointment with my doctor and at the end I asked if I could skip Neulasta this time (in case you couldn’t tell—I hate that shot and what it does to my bones). He. Said. Yes. I cheered for joy and threw my arms up in the air. I haven’t been that happy in a while. Then he sent us to the infusion room.
While we were waiting, Dr. Ansari’s typing nurse (I don’t know what her title is, but she types everything he says into the computer and does nothing else, so I call her the typing nurse) came out to find us. She never leaves his side. That was not a good sign. She brought us back to the exam room and Dr. Ansari told me to sit down and he looked—awkwardly, in hindsight—into my eyes and asked “How are you really feeling?” Turns out he was examining my eyes, that was why it felt so awkward to me, combined with that question.
I told him I felt amazing, ready to go get my chemo on. He then informed us that my labs came back and my hemoglobin was at a 6.4. I was like, not possible. I had just taken both girls to school and my parents’ house. Cleaned up the apartment and showered. There’s no way that I am sick, especially that sick.
The Doctor ordered that my blood be re-ran as well as another clean draw from my arm instead of my port. I waited expectantly to hear my new lab numbers, surely I was at a 10 or 11. I’m usually around an 8 or 9, and feeling like crap.
Then the nurse came in and said, “I’m sorry but you have to go check into the hospital and have a blood transfusion. No chemo today.” Bum. Mer. I asked if that meant I’d have to have the Neulasta shot when I did finally get chemo. She answered, “Yes.” Double bummer. There were roughly about eight minutes between hearing the news that I didn’t need to have Neulasta to not only needing it, but heading to the hospital for a blood transfusion. Those eight minutes were glorious.
Since my last treatment I’ve felt so-so. Nothing really new, just a lot more vomiting. Hope you’re not eating your breakfast while you read this.
I’m heading into my seventh treatment today. Time to head back into that chemo coma.
8 thoughts on “Eight Minutes”
Baby, today then one more… you are so close to no more! Keep your mind on that! Flex that bulldawg attitude! I love you forever!
What strength you have, to endure all that you’ve gone through. I’m in awe! You’re a warrior. The typing nurse is probably your doctor’s scribe, but I kinda like your name for her better! I’m continuing to pray for you and for your family.
Hang in there Kimberly!! You amaze me and are such a rockstar!! Love, smiles and hugs!
YAY!!! to only 1 more treatment. Kim, I know you can do this. God is right there with you each and every moment. We, your family & friends, who love you dearly are CONTINUALLY praying for you. We love you. You are AMAZING!!! Your immediate family is standing along side you to keep life as normal for your sweet daughters as much as it possible. YOU ROCK with the STRENGTH OF GOD!!!!
You are so so strong!! Praying and thinking about you all the time. XOXOXO
Words are not enough…my spirit groans with you and for you. Times like these I trust Holy Spirit to take these groans before the Father that He might breathe life, healing, rest, peace, and joy over you and through you. You and your entire family are dearly loved.
It’s almost done! I can’t describe the feeling of walking out after finishing my last treatment today. I had a terrible 2 weeks and I will certainly pray that this one will be easier for you to deal with. Girl, you got this! The finish line for chemo is in sight and I am cheering you on!