There’s about eight different techs who handle radiology at Hopkins, and in three visits I think I’ve met them all. Because they have to align the dots on my stomach, they have to hike up my gown after they’ve covered my bits with a sheet. This choreography has gone well, and everything that needs to be covered has remained covered. However, I’ve mooned at least three of them getting up off the table, including the nice student who has been quizzing me on brewing beer. I’m slowly coming to terms with the lack of dignity a hospital stay affords the average patient; I just have to accept the fact that they’ve seen butts before and mine is no different.
Day 2 was no more uncomfortable than Day 1, but the music was better: Motown instead of classical. We celebrated by going to Miss Shirley’s for breakfast, because we had to stay in the city for a 3PM appointment with the Chemo guy. I did notice, on our way out of the restaurant, that the side effects have begun. We were about to cross the street to the parking garage when I did a 180 and made a beeline for the bathroom; it was time for everybody to GET OFF THE BUS. This afternoon I’ve noticed fatigue beginning to hit as we sit waiting for the chemo appointment.
As we sat in the waiting room for the chemo appointment, we ran into neighbors from several streets over, who were in for their appointment–the same folks who got us the referral to Hopkins in the first place. We sat and traded stories until they called us both in. What a shitty place to meet up with friends.
Our doctor is a very nice man who took an hour and a half to go over my background, do an exam, explain what’s going on, and then outline his plan for treatment. It’s a lot more involved than we were originally led to believe. I’m going to be doing two rounds of chemo during radiation to supercharge the process, and then I do the surgery. After I’ve healed up from that, I go back to do two more rounds of chemo to make sure we got everything. This puts the treatment plan out into the beginning of next year, if I’m not mistaken.
Fun Fact: only about 15,000 people in the United States get this kind of cancer, and the one I’ve got is a rare version of that type.
He described the two drugs he’ll be giving me, the procedure for doing so (adding a port in my neck, eeeeww) and the side effects we should expect. I was hoping for a pill but these will be intravenous, and I will lose my hair, along with a bunch of other less pleasant possibilities.