My Cancer, Part 3

Previously, on My Cancer: "Mr. Spencer, you have Stage 4B Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Stage 4 means it has spread throughout your body from its origin in your Lymphatic System. The B part simply notes the symptom of soaking night sweats. The good news is, we can cure you."

A new week, a new adventure. Monday (March 20): in preparation for my chemotherapy, a "Port" is surgically installed in my chest. It's a necessity for the chemo "cocktail" I will be served for a total of six sessions, every third Wednesday; the last one will be on June 17, 2020, which will also be the 42nd anniversary for me and Debbie (what a coincidence!).

The necessity arises because of the caustic nature of one component of the cocktail, which is so corrosive it would attack the walls of my veins if delivered conventionally via an IV tube. The Port directs each of the chemo components (delivered separately, in sequence) through a tube to a vein junction where blood turbulence is high, reducing the corrosive effect to a safe level. (Bonus: the Port can be left in my body indefinitely, if I choose, so I'll never need another IV again. The port can be used for any injection, drawing blood, or donating blood.)

Tuesday: I get a long-awaited PET scan (Positron-emission Tomography). I'm injected with a radioisotope (half-life, 90 minutes) that attaches itself to any sugar-laden cells (a hallmark of cancer cells), but not others. My oncologist told me, "the scan will list up any solid mass in my body."

Wednesday: my first chemotherapy session. (By the way, there will be no radiation.) My port is accessed for the first time; it's covered by skin, so the needle has to pass through it but no vein is hit in the way in. I was told that subsequent access to the port would be less and less painful.

My oncologist visits at the start, and brings good news: the PET scan report has come in, he's read it, and Nothing. Lit. Up. (No solid masses were detected, except in the liver, which they already knew from the liver biopsy, prompted by the second CT scan. That's where the initial diagnosis came from.)

After several preliminary injections (through the Port, of course), the first chemo solution is administered. This one always takes longer than the rest (Rituxan, a monoclonal antibody, technically not in the "chemotherapy" category since it is targeted rather than "kill-em-all"). First speed bump encountered: I have a relatively rare adverse reaction (which my treatment team is well-prepared for)—I start shaking like Chuck Yeager fighting the stick during his first-ever, record setting flight where he broke the sound barrier. For a visual, see the classic movie "The Right Stuff." Bring a pack of Beaman's gum.

After they got me back under control, they continued the infusion at a much slower rate, and rescheduled the rest of my first session for today (March 5). I'm almost done: arrived at 9, should leave around 2.

Tomorrow (at 1:30 or 2), I will return for a shot to restore a good part of my white blood cells killed off by the chemo (it stimulates the bone marrow to make more). I have a regimen of pills to take to counter nausea, and other possible side-effects. Next wednesday, I will see my oncologist for a general checkup and Q&A session. I could not be happier with the quality and competence of my care team (Shore Medical and Shore Cancer Center in Somers Point, NJ.)