Between chemo cycles five and six, I checked into ER for a fever that turned out to be RSV. It wasn’t serious and I was recovering nicely by the time treatment six rolled around. But near the end of the treatment I started coughing and my O2 sats went down to 80% (they checked to make sure the machine wasn’t broken) which earned me another trip to the ER and from there to the ICU. I spent four days over Christmas in the Surrey Hospital ICU until I could reliably rest without needing O2 support to keep my sats up. And in case you ever wondered, yes they do serve Christmas dinner in the hospital… sort of.
For treatment seven, we decided to discontinue Paclitaxel and give Herceptin only, in case Paclitaxel was causing problems with my heart. However in the hours after treatment I developed coughing and shortness of breath at rest, especially lying down to sleep. So once again I was off to ER, where a bedside ultrasound found a bunch of fluid around my lungs, making it hard for them to expand. (The black in the middle of the screen is fluid, the bright part pointing up from the bottom is my diaphragm, and the thing that looks a bit like a pointy tongue sticking out from the left is my lung.) I was admitted for five days to deal with the fluid backup which was a result of worsening heart failure. The treatment (in this case Herceptin) had reduced my heart’s pumping ability down to 35% (which later dropped to 25%).
One of the best surprises of my life was seeing my Mum and Dad come walking through the ER. My nurse had said they were here to visit, but I knew she must be mistaken because my parents live on the mainland and I had just talked to them there a few hours ago. Imagine my tears of surprise and joy when they showed up unannounced! I had been chatting with two good friends I work with at the hospital, and I think we all had a moment of love and joy together then. Now, I’m a “grown ass woman” but my parents stayed for several days and looked after me like I was still their little teeny-bopper, bringing me fresh coffee (my life-blood compared to the cold swampwater in a plastic mug that comes on a tray), muffins, books, and crossword puzzles. Plus quiet calm company and curious conversations with my doctors. Along with friendly visits from so many of my “work family” at the hospital, I was never lonely.
So this hospitalization put an end to any thought of finishing the last chemo treatment. But that meant expediting surgery to remove the tumour before it started to grow and spread again.
