Betsy, why you be like that?

As I learned from watching the documentary American Pimp, the relationship between pimps and hos is a complicated one that often involves abuse, codependency, and exploitation.  Yet some of these relationships also involve a twisted sort of parent-child relationship, where the pimp actually cares for the ho -- or is it the other way around?  Such is my relationship with Betsy, aka, the 5FU IV pump that's strapped to my hip 5 days a week these days.

Imagine, if you will, having a 5lb battery powered brick attached to a 240ml IV bag and stuffed into a very attractive black velcro-closured fanny pack as your constant companion for 120 continuous hours.  Now imagine that the brick is somewhat ill tempered, beeps loudly enough to pierce an eardrum at random times or if you happen to roll your chair over the cable (which is easy to do).  That's Betsy, my pimp.

Yesterday was a long day -- it started at 7:15am when we headed out for blood tests, x-rays, radiation treatments, doctor visits and chemotherapy.  The great news is that the doctor continues to be very pleased with the progress I have made.  Blood tests all look really good, and he says that I'm very fortunate to be heading into radiation in good shape -- their typical patients, in addition to being 70-80 years old at diagnosis, have lost lots of weight, and have not been able to tolerate the chemo nearly as well as I have.  I think we're still firmly in the realm of kicking ass and taking names.

As for radiation, the treatments themselves still don't hurt at all -- it's literally just like getting an x-ray, although they do it from 13 different angles.  Aside from the questionable music going on in the room, and the fact that it's a little chilly, I really don't have a lot to complain about.  My therapists, Sumesh, Bet-te, and Suzanne have been really wonderful.  The after effects, however, have not been so wonderful -- Friday afternoon I had a bit of a swallowing incident.  This is not the first time I've had something caught, but it's never pleasant.  At least this time it didn't send me to the emergency room as it did last time.  In talking with the doctor, it seems that I can expect more of this kind of thing over the next 5 weeks as radiation irritates the surrounding tissues.  That means Mr. Tortilla is going to have to get shelved until this is over with, and I'm stuck eating soup and softer things instead of the expanded menu to which I've become accustomed. :-/  Friday's incident left me sore in the ribcage area (from the associated hiccups) and generally aggravated things in the region such that swallowing is even more difficult.  However, it still beats the alternatives ;-}

Chemotherapy is now every week, instead of every two weeks.  I remember reading somewhere that there's a chemical that women's brains secrete during childbirth that has amnesia inducing properties -- thus guaranteeing that the unpleasantness of the event will be blocked out -- otherwise we'd live in a world of only children.  I have to wonder if the same type of chemical is at work for chemotherapy.  When they were two weeks apart, I seemed to have ample time to forget the unpleasantness.  With only one week between sessions, I still remember quite well that it sucks.  For the most part, I'm just experiencing a lot of fatigue, foggy-headedness, and feeling bloated -- I spent a big chunk of Labor Day weekend napping in bed, on the couch, or in the recliner.  I finally began to feel a bit better just in time for the new round to start.

Back to Betsy:  After finishing chemo last night around 8pm, we made the trek back to the 'burbs, and literally as we drove into the driveway, Betsy started to squawk "air in line."  Well crap.  So we reset everything, and put her back down for a nap, and went to bed.  "Surely," we thought "the gas bubble will clear and she'll be alright."  Alas, every 45 minutes she continued to wake up and scream.  After 2 calls to MDA and one to the Pimp Support line, we gave up, and started schlepping up to the hospital at 1am.  After a couple of hours, we were back home, with a new and improved pimp, who has remained quiet since.  Unfortunately, the hours of sleep I lost appear to have been gone forever.  Such is the nature of being a parent, I suppose.

Until next time,

J

PS Many have asked why I call Betsy the "pimp." Through an unfortunate confluence of chubby thumbs and overzealous auto correct, I sent a series of text messages with references to "having a new pimp" during the early days of treatment.  The ensuing giggling on both ends of the text message guaranteed that Betsy would forever be known as such.  The name Betsy comes from the nurses at MD Anderson -- apparently in reference to the Wetsy Betsy dolls of the past.