A Touch of Anaphylaxis

Thanksgiving 2009:
Just say no to anaphylaxis.

On Tuesday, my second round of chemo started out on the bright side:  my blood counts were good enough to proceed, my medical oncologist sort of offered me a job, the UCSF Infusion Center was running ahead of schedule, and my nurse got my IV started with one stick.  I was settling into an episode of Parks of Recreation when all of a sudden my face felt aflame, my chest felt compressed by a buffalo, and I started wheezing.  Then came intense abdominal pain. 

"Oh shit," I thought, "anaphylaxis."  


Everything felt oddly calm.  Many Nurses ran in, there was a lot of commotion, but everything was molasses slow from where I sat.  I remember having a few fleeting thoughts such as, "Where is the epinephrine?  Is the airway cart (with intubation supplies) within reach?"  But I don't remember being able to speak.  And then I don't remember really caring about the answer to those questions.  I was awake but I didn't feel there.  Then came a bunch of IV medications and then I fell into a fluttery twilight.

  

I was stubborn here too.  This was the summer I only
 wore my swimsuit backward.  Andrea seemed to like it.

Fast forward about three hours, after a re-challenge at my request (yes I am stubborn), and a second, milder allergic reaction, and that was the end of Taxotere for me.  My Mom handled everything with grace.  Including carting me out of the Cancer Center in a wheelchair because I was too wobbly to walk. 

The ride home was like being five years old again coming home from the county fair, way past bedtime, clutching a stuffed animal won at the ring toss.  You know the stop lights, turns, and traffic pauses signal your approach home, but you can't open your eyes to confirm it.  Then suddenly I was home, so happy to see David and the dogs and crawl into bed with my jeans and shoes on. 

So now, two days later, I am at UCSF again with my Mom and Dad for a second attempt at my second round of chemo but this time with a new agent called Abraxane (paclitaxel) to be followed with the same old Cytoxan (cyclophosphamide). 

In medical training, and only amongst residents, sometimes we would try to lighten dark medical situations by saying "Ms. M has a whiff of tuberculosis and AIDS."  Or "Mr. W has a touch of multi-system organ failure."  Obviously you can't have a whiff or a touch of any of these conditions, but in the middle of the night with just you and one other resident in the hospital running the inpatient medicine service, it felt softer, almost safer, to throw in "a touch of."

So, I had a touch of anaphylaxis.  And my Mom carried me home.
 


Except on Tuesday I was sans blankie. 
And we were not on the Texas Farm.