Wednesday, April 20, 2016

April 1st

In the interim of posting about health crisis, it occurs to me that I never posted about HOW I GOT MARRIED on April 1st. And it was not a joke. Steve's the best ever, because he went along with my date without batting an eye.

We'd been planning an outdoor wedding at a friend's house, but the closer we got to the date, the more obvious it became that I wasn't well enough to be discharged, so Judy enlisted the help of the hospital chaplain in securing the hospital chapel.

We were married between 10 and 10:30, on a beautiful Friday morning. I was drugged out of my mind, and weak beyond words, but it was the happiest day of my life. Not only because I was marrying the kindest, most compassionate, best man I've ever known, but also because I was able to look out and see the faces of so many friends and loved ones from so many chapters of my life. That, especially in current circumstances, has been such a blessing. I love my people.

I love my Steve.

Here are a few pics from the happy day.
















Saturday, April 16, 2016

What's new

It's not a big secret that I've been not writing here as often as I used do, and trust me,  I know that I have some catching up to do. But first and foremost, let me explain that my hospital stay drug or for two weeks. I was sent home on April 2nd. Since then, I've been trying - with little to no avail - to rest up and build my energy levels. I was diagnosed with c-diff in the hospital, and the incessant diarrhea has been a real treat to deal with. On top of the c-diff, I've been vomiting at all hours of the day and night. Not being able to keep food in me has brought me to a whole new level of fatigue.

Steve and I spent most of our day in the er yesterday, having tests run to see if we could figure out why I keep vomiting. It appears that the day has come that the growth of the tumor is interfering with my digestive process. Some nutrients are still getting through, and as long as they do, I can live like this. But when the nutrients stop sneaking by, this tumor will kill me. Gulp.

That said, it was May 2015 when I was given 3-6 months. And it's been quite a year. I've done things I never would have imagined I'd so, and I've gone on adventures that I wouldn't have thought possible. Maybe there's one more miracle left, and this isn't curtains. ("Lacy, gently wafting curtains") Fingers crossed!

Saturday, March 19, 2016

The last 48

So... Thursday morning (to clarify, this was the middle of the night morning), I woke up, DRENCHED in sweat. Like, crazy wet. Pillow soaked through, sheets wet, even down by my feet.  It was bizarro. Because it was the middle of the night, and I was exhausted, I was able to freak back asleep, but when I woke up in the legit AM, I told Judy what had happened, and we had Instant Laundry Day. I didn't think much of the fever, outside of needing fresh sheets on my bed. Thursday was the first day I was at all hungry, so I'd had all kinds of hope that I'd turned a corner and was getting better.

You know me and me unrealistic hope in things that cannot be true. (This damn optimistic spirit can be a real kick in the pants sometimes.)

Anyway, I ate breakfast, but then got back in bed. Katie and Judy left to go shopping just after 11, and I fell asleep shortly after they left. I slept until 1 or 2:00, and woke up warm and out of breath. Did it click that I probably head another fever? Nope. I got up to make some lunch, and head to sit down to rest twice in the process of making myself a bean burrito. (Don't judge. I had to open the beans, and I have a manual can opener. It was really hard work. ... Insert eye roll here.)

After eating and showering  (a 2+ hour process, all told, because I was so out of breath that I could hardly move without winding myself), I was back in bed.

Don't worry about how I still hadn't even thought about checking my temperature.

Steve came over around 4:00. By then, I was in bed, so he came back to lie down beside me. Katie and Judy left to run another errand, and we slept until about 5:30. I had been cold, so I was under the covers and Steve was above the covers, next to me. I'd been dozing in and out for the hour he was there, and was out when he woke me up, rubbing my arm to get me to respond, because he was certain there was something wrong with me. The heat emanating from my blanket covered self had woken HIM up. He went to get the thermometer, and... yeah, there was "something wrong".

I had a temperature of 103.5.

I got out of bed, tossed the blankets, took some Tylenol and set out to prove that I could get the temp to drop.

Thirty min later, I was at 103.3. ... Not a significant drop. By now Kate and Jude were home and up to speed. They all agreed to give me another 30 min.

103.4, half an hour later.

So, at about 7:00, Thursday night, the caravan to the hospital began. (Any fevers over 100.4 send you straight to the ER when you're on chemo.)

We were in the ER for almost 8 hours, while they ran tests to find the infection that was driving the fevers, to no avail. I mean, it's good that I don't have a UTI, or a blood clot in my lungs, or the flu. But I still have these wicked fevers that keep spiking for no apparent reason. The ER doc decided to call it "Neutropenic Fevers", prescribed fluids and an intravenous antibiotic and shipped me up to the oncology floor, where I've been since about 3:00 in the AM, Thursday night/Friday morning.

Steve's spent the night with me both nights, and Judy sleeps at my apt in the night, then comes here in the day while Steve is at work.

They still have NO IDEA what's causing the fevers, but just since I've been here, my blood has gotten worse. Thursday, my platelets were at 140 (should be 700-1400, or something like that). This morning, they were at 70.

I've been on constant IV fluids to keep me hydrated, and an IV antibiotic to fight whatever mystery infection that's keeping me sick.

Really, I don't feel much worse than I usually do at home. Maybe a little more tired, because I have people checking vitals every hour on the hour through the night, so I can't get solid sleep. Definitely more cranky, because I just want to go home and get in my own bed.

I'm resigned to at least one more night, because the rule is that I need to be fever free for 24 hours before they'll let me go home, and my last fever broke in the middle of the night. It's pretty annoying, but there's nothing I can do outside of drinking a lot of fluids and not over exerting myself. So, I'm doing and not doing those two things.

Other than letting ya'll know that I'm here, with no apparent reason to be here, outside of the fevers that will not die, there's not anything new to report. Should you feel so inclined, I'm currently accepting prayers, well wishes, juju, good energy and intentions specific to keeping my fever down. And heck, if you'd like to throw in a line about how the doctors will be able to determine the root cause of all of this, that would be fine, too.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

The Red Devil

And that, kids, is how *Doxyrubicin/Adriamicin got its nickname. 


It wasn't this bright a red when I got it last time, because it was diluted in saline to go over several days. This is a hardcore bolus dose (outpatient) that takes about half an hour to push. 

I only wish I'd thought to take my phone into the bathroom with me the first time I peed after the infusion, because I am telling you... the toilet looked like it was full of Hawaiian Punch! (Oh, well. There's always next time, right?)

To prevent *fingers crossed* some of the more heinous side effects I had on this drug last year, I have an infusion on Palifermin once a day for the three days preceding chemo. (I had thought it was one infusion 72 hours before chemo and one infusion 72 hours after. That was a communication snafu. It's an infusion the three days prior, then chemo, then Neulasta the day after.) So, last week looked like this: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday - spent a couple hours every day at MDA for the premed, Friday - three and a half hours at MDA for chemo and other associated meds, Saturday - spent about half an hour at the hospital, getting the Neulasta shot. 

Here's how the side effects have been: intense nausea, with some actual vomiting thrown in for good measure. (I've thrown up more in the last week than I have in the last year, put together. It's been such a blast.) I'm crazy tired, and unbelievably weak. I have joint pain and abdominal swelling, and yeast infections in my mouth and otherwise that predate chemo of last week, so that's been a real treat. My head hurts and my teeth hurt. I have a new pain in the front of my left ribcage that I'm still hoping it's temporary, but I've had it for almost a week now, so.... it may just be a new thing. 

The good news is that I don't have mouth sores. (Knock on wood that it's not just that they haven't shown up yet!) And that's what the premed is supposed to help with, so it looks like it's doing its job. Halle-freakin-lujah!

All in all... I'm alive. And I woke up hungry today, for the first time in a week. So, that's a win. I'm crazy tired, physically, emotionally, mentally. I'll be okay for a while, and then my brain gets foggy and I can't remember what I was doing or talking about. That's so frustrating that I don't even have words for it, but I'm hanging in there and hoping that the fog will lift just a little in the next couple weeks. 

It's not easy. In fact, it's hard. Crazy hard. And sometimes I feel like I'm living a hell that is straight up indescribable, but I think that life is worth it. So, I keep going. One foot in front of the other, one nausea pill and one percocet at a time. 

*I'm not sure what it says about me, but I'm finding a certain level of comfort in having learned that the red devil dose for sarcoma is 150x the dose given to breast cancer patients. Not to minimize the hell that is the breast cancer dose. Any chemo is poison and is going to wreak havoc on a body, but part of me is seriously proud of my sick and weak body for taking that crap like a champ. A bedridden, drugged up,  sick and weak champ, for sure. But I'm still standing. (Uhm... figuratively.)

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Guess who's getting three new purses?

Go ahead and call me Pollyanna, but I have to focus on the upside of a scan that revealed three new tumors.

... In my lungs.

And that upside is that I buy myself a Coach bag (from an outlet store, and on clearance, so don't worry about me spending a fortune) for every tumor. (C is for Coach. C is also for cancer.) So... three new purses is something to celebrate. (No, actually, it isn't. I shook my head at my own bad sense of humor at that.)

When we first saw the scan, I was so happy to see that big, black, hole in the middle of my GIANT tumor. I had been so hopeful that the last chemo would work. I had been hopeful that it had been working, that the explanation for all of the pain - that the fiery, burning, sensation I had through the entire first round - was the cancer dying.



Well... the pain may well have been the tumor dying. But it's the opinion of the doctors that it was the tumor growing so fast that it couldn't maintain its own growth, and that's why the center of it died.


Yup. Necrosis. It's been my vocab word of the week. 

It doesn't appear that the center of the tumor dying has slowed the growth down. (Or, if it has... thank heaven! Because it's still a beast, and I have a bump coming out of my left side that's made it all but impossible to find a pair of pants that doesn't make me want cry.)

Here's a side by side of this week's scan against the January scan.


My infamous rib-breaking tumor has grown from 7.3 x 3.9 cm to 11.2 x 8.4 cm. And like almost doubling in size isn't ominous enough, the SUV has jumped from 14.7 to 23.1. That's a 57% increase, kids. And it's scary as hell, because the SUV score indicates that this bad boy is active enough to have soaked up a whole lot of the contrast. It's white hot compared to January's yellow glow. 

I hate it.

And speaking of things that I hate.... Here's a shot of one of my three new friends.


I'm going to name them Larry, Curly and Moe. (Because I've always hated The Three Stooges, and I hate these tumors, too.)

It's important to note that I don't have lung cancer. It's liposarcoma, metastasized to my lungs. In the words of my PET, "There are at least three new hypermetabolic parenchymal nodules."  There's no need to biopsy them, as I'm already in treatment for cancer. I'll be starting another new regimen next week, and while I am hopeful... I am also scared out of my ever lovin' mind, because I'm going back on Doxyrubicin (aka: Adriamycin, aka: The Red Devil). The last two treatments that I've done have been brutal. They've made me take to my bed for days at a time, they've sucked all of my energy, they've taken my memory and my ability to put sentences together properly... they've been wicked. And they're still a walk in the park, compared to what I did last spring.

It will be a different blend. Last year, I did Doxyrubicin + Ifosfamide. The Ifos has kidney impact, which is why I was in the hospital for almost a week with every infusion last spring. This regimen will be Doxyrubicin + Dacarbazine (which was, ironically, the "hard" chemo in the mix I took in November and December... now it's going to be the easy chemo), every 21 days. To try and prevent the mucusitis/open sores throughout the entirety of my digestive tract issue that I had last time, they'll give me Palifermin as a pre-med and a post-med, 72 hours before and after chemo. It'll be a few more trips to MDA the week that I get chemo (Tuesday, Palifermin - Friday, chemo - Saturday, Neulasta - Monday, Palifermin), but I'm hopeful that the pre/post med will help my body withstand the chemo, and will lighten my side effects.

I'm still scared out of my mind about doing this drug again, but... I'm hopeful that a different blend, plus a different delivery method, plus the pre/post med will help my body do what I have to do, and that this blend of chemo will be effective.

Outside of getting some pretty not awesome news at the doctor on Wednesday, the trip to Houston was good. It was the first time Steve and I have ever gone out of town together. He was a trooper and a half, pushing my wheelchair all over the airport, and then all over MDA campus for all of my appointments. He made sure I was as comfortable as I could be, from physically holding me close to his chest on the shuttle ride to the hotel, because the bumps in the road were jostling me and the movement hurt my rib, to making sure I had enough pillows and a fluffy comforter in the room. When I couldn't swallow the eggs and sausage that he'd gotten me for breakfast, he ate them for me and then went to find me some cereal. And when my poor motor skills meant that I couldn't hold onto my bowl of cereal and I spilled it all over myself and the booth we were sitting in, he calmly moved me to another table and went and found me some more cereal. Traveling was hard on my body, but it was good for my soul to be so well taken care of (and to get to eat wings at the airport on our way back home)!




Monday, February 29, 2016

It's almost March!

Like, tomorrow. Tomorrow, it will be March.

I have no idea where this month has gone!

Oh, wait. Yes, I do.

This month has gone to... chemo. I've been hanging out in bed, flat on my back (because something has changed inside of me and I can't lie on my right side anymore... the broken rib banned me from my left side in the fall, but the right side is a recent change, so it still makes me crazy on a regular (read: nightly) basis). And I've gone to acupuncture and the cancer shrink. And to Jo's for dinner once this month, and went to Logan's with my Crossmen the night before I did chemo again.

Oh, and Maggie was baptized. I left my house the weekend of her baptism. ... But, uh... that's about it.

So much for this "mild, with very few side effects" chemo that I've been on for the last two rounds. Ha!

I mean, this second round has been ABOUT A THOUSAND TIMES BETTER than the first round was. I had fevers and pain that I've NEVER had on anything else, and the nausea... oh my gosh, it was brutal. Homsi changed my premeds on this last round (flipped Zofran out and replaced it with Emend). Best move he's ever made in his professional life, I'm pretty sure, because I could control the nausea in that first week after the infusion... not something I could do with the first round. The pain is still... bad. (I mean, you guys. It's crazy.) And the fatigue is still... all consuming. But I upped my (don't worry... it's all legal) drug usage at the end of that first round, which has helped me sleep through the night. Being able to sleep has made a world of difference with the residual pain. So, it's still not awesome. I'm basically never NOT in pain these days. I don't love it, but the last two weeks have been monumentally better than the three before that were, so... I'm hoping this chemo is working, now that I don't think it's out to actually kill me with abdominal pain anymore.

(I like to think that the pain is the cancer dying. ... It may be a lie that I tell myself, but I don't care. I can't get it to go away, so my coping mechanism is to think that I have this new, special, pain inside of me because that's the tumor(s) last stranglehold. We'll see.)

Which brings me to... this is scan week.

Yes, I just had chemo two weeks ago. Yes, tomorrow is Day 14. ... And yes, we're flying to Texas tomorrow. On Day 14. To have a scan done on Day 15.

This was not my idea, fyi. Because this chemo is "mild, with very few side effects", Dr. Z wanted me to come at the end of my second cycle so we could know it it's working asap. (My gut feeling? She's pregnant and is due in March. I'm pretty sure I'm traveling now, so I'll be able to see her before she goes out for maternity leave. I think she's cramming as much in as she can before that baby comes. And I love her, so... whatever. Also, this will keep me on track to have chemo next week, so I'll stay in a true 21 day cycle and not go a full 21 days without any chemo in my system... like I did between the chemo I did in Nov & Dec and starting this at the end of January.)

Steve and I are flying out tomorrow morning. All of the tests and the follow-up/results appointments are on Wednesday. (Should a real winner of a day. ... Insert eye roll here. ... I'm tired, just thinking about it!) So, I'll post something Wednesday afternoon/evening with an update on whether or not this cocktail is doing something.

It's a little trippy to be doing medical travel with someone who isn't Judy, but... it was brutal to be there without him in December, and I'm not doing that again. So, he's coming. And I'm glad.

Come back in 48-72, and I'll have an update (and probably some awesome tumor pics from my scan... who doesn't love those?) on what's coming next.


Tuesday, February 9, 2016

My special "extra dairy" diet

Contrary to popular belief, I'm not losing weight for fun. Or to "feel better". Or on purpose, on any level.

In fact, I'm intentionally making efforts not to lose much more weight.

I have a fairly limited diet (I can only eat what I can digest, after all), but I am here to tell you that I throw calories and fat at everything I can.

Case in point, would you look at how I basically frosted this burrito with sour cream?


Mmmmmmm.... That would be a smashed black bean & cheese burrito with five packets of Mild Sauce (I may or may not stockpile Taco Bell sauces for my own personal use) and about half a cup of full fat sour cream. Delish!

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Happy anniversary to chemo and me

February 4th is...


February 4, 2015 was the day I started chemo. 

Happy freakin' anniversary!

Last night, for kicks, I did the math: 466 hours. That's how many hours I've spent hooked up to a chemo drip in the last year. (And I took just over a six month break.)

It hasn't always (or... uhm... ever, frankly) been fun, but I'm still here. 

The good news? The damage to my nails from the first four rounds has almost grown out. Another month or two, and the soft and flaky part of my previously super human nails will have grown out. Woot!


The not-so-good news? This is what my skin looks like, 10 days into this new regimen. 


And that's WITH copious amounts of super expensive lotion, applied daily. My body is falling apart. Literally. 

The last twelve months have been doozies. Chemo's turned my life on edge in a way that I couldn't have possibly prepared myself for. It's been an unspeakably difficult year, but I'm grateful for modern medicine. Even as I spend our anniversary in bed with a heating pad on a broken rib, I am grateful for multiple doctors and several chemotherapies that have been successful in other patients with my diagnosis. 

Hope springs eternal that this time next year, February 4th will be chemo-free for me. That my nails and my hair and my skin will be restored, and that some version of this drug that I hate with my whole soul will have, at the very least, stopped the growth of the tumor that is currently trying to kill my body. (I mean, I'd take total eradication in a heartbeat, but... I'd also be pleased as punch if it would just stop getting worse.)

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Side effects

It's always a good time when a girl starts a new chemo regimen. The foray into the unknown is such a fun adventure. (Insert eye roll here.)

I'm at the end of Day 5, and this is what I now know about this new drug:

Worst. Nausea. Ever.

As in E-VER. (Please consider this is coming from the woman who was on anti-nausea meds for months in 2010, aka: the girl who could barely keep down 4 carrots at a time during radiation.) 

Luckily, I have multiple prescriptions for nausea meds, so I'm able to overlap and take something every four hours. But man... the nausea is wicked. It's a force to be reckoned with, and is so strong that it will wake me up from a dead sleep an hour before it's time to take a pill. It's completely insane.

Besides the nausea, I've had this real awesome full body ache thing going on. Like the flu, but 52 times worse, because the aches are combined with all-over fluid retention and swelling that is out of this world. 

At the end of Day 5, I can feel my collarbone again. So, that's movement in the right direction. (My face is still swollen and puffy, and the back of my head looks like a marshmallow... again, with the fluid retention.) But I'm starting to see the swelling recede, and now I can lie on my right side, which gives me an option for sleeping.

Word on the street is that nausea is the #1 side effect for this drug, and that it gets better in the second week, with little to no side effects in the third week. (Please know that I am laughing, even as I type this, seeing as how I'm still seeing side effects from the last chemo in my daily life... and it's been more than a month since my last infusion on that regimen. But whatever.)

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Trabectedin, Round I

Okay, so... totally unrelated to chemo, but look who I ran into again in the halls of MDA! It's Gimbel and Amanda! Best surgical team, EVER! I did the math today, and... four years, three surgeries, five tumors (of nine, so Gimble holds the title for majority of tumors pulled), one kidney, one spleen, 5 cm of diaghram, I-don't-even-know-how-many-feet-of-bowel-reconstruction, one MASSIVE hernia repair, and one stragegically placed port (placed low, so I could still wear shirts with wider necklines... I get claustrophobic in high necks, and I get gaggy when I can see a port that's placed right on a collarbone, so dude did me a solid and put that puppy in low).

Gimbel is The Man! I so love him and Amanda. I love them for saving my life, for sure. But I love them even more for always treating me like a person. I've heard so many "Surgeon/God Complex" horror stories, but I'm so glad to say... I've never experienced that. Ever. With any of my surgical staff. I looooooove them!


For those of you who know how to read a blood work, report... Yes, I started chemo with low a low red blood cell count. But don't worry, when I pointed that out, I was told, "It's barely low for a normal person, and it's not "oncology" low." True story. (Love me some oncology nurses.)


What do I love? 


Acupuncture treatments DURING chemo. 

That red needle in between my eyes? It's to help with anxiety. And I am here to tell you... IT WORKS. I took an ativan at 7:00 this morning. Aaaaaaaand... that's it. I haven't felt remotely itchy or obsessive since acupuncture. (And I'm here to tell you, I had some major concerns about this 24 hour chemo drip before I got stuck. Say what you will about acupuncture being hippy dippy and weird, it has saved me. In so many ways!) I loooooooove acupuncture! 


Please allow me to introduce you to my little friend. 


This is Handy Mandy, the Chemo Clutch.

(Yup, I named her. Because I name all of the things.)

She's full of poison and has a mind of her own, so don't try to do anything off schedule or she'll screech at you. (True story.) We have a love/hate (mostly hate) thing going, but I'll be happy to upgrade that to a for sure LOVE in six weeks, if science can prove to me that packing around my own chemo in a harness-like contraption that's a combination of purse, fanny pack, backpack, and... not fashion forward in the very least... has kicked this (these?) tumor (tumors?) trash.

Remember how I had a hotel reserved for tonight, so Judy and I could stay close to the hospital and I wouldn't have to have a sleepover with the chemo in my actual house? Welllll... let's go ahead and downgrade that hotel-with-an-H to a motel-with-an-M. Fast. And let me tell you straight up that, upon arriving on the scene of the motel, I decided my life was worth more than whatever peace of mind that I thought I was buying myself with that $75 room. Luckily, their cancellation policy let me have through 6:00 PM (on the supposed night of the stay... that should have been Clue #1) to bail. So... call made to the motel, followed by website visited and online cancellation requested, and then follow up/confirmation of cancellation phone call was made to corporate, since the motel mgmnt couldn't confirm cancellation. (Methinks local management really wanted to sell at least three rooms tonight. Sadly, they're not gonna break two.)

And then I brought the chemo home for an overnight. It's really not so bad. (Don't worry about how I ran through over 3 hours just sitting at MDA, because I had to make sure I knew all of the sounds of the pump, and had to make sure I couldn't taste or smell the chemo, etc.)

This would be my **port access.

Please pause and take a look at the butterfly clip. 

Sort of cute. Also, sort of gross, since butterflies are, at best, worms with wings, and this little girl is hovering over a one inch needle, but whatev.

Now, let's pause to thank my surgical team for throwing my port down so far that it's almost like it's not even there. I won't lie, it's a little tricky to access sometimes, because it's not right against bone like they usually are, but Gimbel did a good job in burying it so I rarely see it when I'm fully clothed. God bless that man!


So, the port access is right at my t-shirt line, and then the tubing has been fed down through my shirt, so it exits right at the bottom of the shirt. This is how much I can see between my shirt and Handy Mandy. 

Not super grotesque. I can handle a couple feet of clear tubing, with a clear liquid running through it.


And this is what Handy Mandy looks like on the inside.

Slightly more grotesque. (I love the zipper that keeps all of her poison where I can't see it!)

Sort of like a bomb. ...*Maybe.


The chemo sits on one side. I'd show you the bag of gross, but... it's gross. Plus it's already strapped in, and I'm not running the risk of taking it out and then not being able to get it back in at the right angle. (Mandy would scream about that. I promise.) And the pump sits on the other side, keeping track of how much poison has been pushed, and how much is left to go.

The real beauty of Handy Mandy the Chemo Clutch is that she, A) holds the bag of poison, so I don't have to actually see it in its full grossness, but also B) the pump is held in such a way that I don't have to actually unzip Mandy to get the low down. There's a handy little velcro window that I can open to see how many ml's are left, and/or see what error message is running across, should something go wrong with the plan and Mandy starts getting vocal.


All in all, it seems that this 24 infusion/chemo sleepover isn't the worst thing ever. (That said, the sun just went down and I'm only 8 hours in. I'm pretty notorious for my night time freakouts, so anything's possible. But... so far, so good.) I think it'll be okay.

*I only know what bombs look like from watching TV. So sue me if I've seen that episode of Blue Bloods with the dirty bombs in NYC so many times that now I think all things that are black and have wires attached look like bombs. No judging.

*Yeah, they used my port instead of IVing my arm. Halle-FREAKIN-lujah! Texas had told me that the port isn't in stable tissue, so I'd need an IV for outpatient chemo. Interestingly enough, Arizona says that a port is a bazillion times (or, "much") more stable than an IV. So, port. Thank heaven! (Don't worry about how I keep talking myself off the ledge that something's going to go wrong with the theory that Mandy will scream bloody murder of she tries to pump chemo in and my line doesn't immediately move it through. Deep breaths.)