HIP HIP Hooray!

Yesterday's treatment marks twelve under my belt in as many months; 24 injections in total, administered two at a time, in unison, by two nurses. What the actual Hello Kitty? Did a year of mBC treatments really just fly by?

Some of you have asked me to describe what these treatments are like compared to the active treatment (chemo/surgery/radiation) I endured during my first go with this disease. To this I say, you cannot compare the two. They are two distinct courses of action based on two very different diagnoses. But the common denominators have been to prolong my life and maintain my quality of life by managing both my cancer and treatment-induced symptoms and side effects. To this end, they have both times been extraordinarily successful.

So what does my monthly treatment entail exactly? Well, it's no more exciting than a routine vaccination I'm afraid, except it involves a return to the Cancer Centre (which I honestly don't mind doing, oddly). Perhaps less desirable to the "faint" of heart are the needles they use, which are much longer and have a higher scare-factor rating than any I've ever seen previously (two cm ish?...they can only get them in half-way if they're lucky). I have zero needle phobia, but these bad boys are things that make me go hmmm. After warming the syringes up under heated blankets and inside my closed fists, their contents' viscosity is lowered and in theory, the meds are able to enter my bloodstream easily and painlessly - save for the injection sites which always bear the worst burden, and how could they not? 

You see, my extreme weight loss and severe cachexia (muscle wasting) make it harder each month to secure an acceptable landing pad in the small, adjacent squares of runway real estate my hips can offer up. Add to that the fact that the needles must enter the muscle slowly over the course of about 5 minutes, and well, you can see my conundrum. So yes, it hurts like a beachball when they go in. But the pain is short-lived and stops, provided I relax into my pulled-down-boxer-shorts-homegirl stance. Then we are as gold as the fake gold-capped tooth I don for these treatments! Ok I don't do that, but I should, right?

Now guess what I've learned over the course of a year of treatment? Sometimes, magically, everything aligns like the planets did last week: the fluid-warming game works well, the pace of the injections is perfectly executed by my duo of superstar nurses, and my trusty Alan Walker and I manage to groove out of the Cancer Centre, pain faded and fancy-free.

Yesterday was one such intergalactic day, and the only things that made it even brighter than the sunbeams pouring spectacularly into my room in an act of solidarity, were the genuine smiles of relief on my nurses' faces when they were informed by me that my treatment went off seamlessly, thanks to their efforts. Want proof? The attached photo was taken moments after we finished up. 

Of note: My unsizeable booty may or may not have remained in sticking out "injection stance" for this pic. Because you gotta have sass not class when you're lacking an ass!