We got back last night from an overnight jaunt to St. Louis, where I met with an allergist to try and determine whether or not I have an allergy to Temodar, the chemo pill prescribed by my oncologist. To sum up how I got here, in case this is news or you’re fuzzy on the details:
In March and April, I took Temodar simultaneously while completing radiation at a dose of 140 mg. Those 5+ weeks were pretty okay. I had some side effects, but nothing anywhere near as bad I had been bracing myself for.
The day after that round of treatment ended, I broke out in what I thought was THE WORST RASH IN HUMAN HISTORY. A dermatologist was seen. Creams and antihistamines were prescribed. I was miserable for a few days, but it got better.
Radiation was officially over at this point, and chemotherapy and I were on a break for a couple of weeks. The plan was for me to start up the once-a-month-for-five-days-in-a-row chemo regimen on May 15. The dosage would be much higher: 320 mg first thing in the morning after I’d take my precautionary Zofran.
I took that first 320-mg dose, and four hours later the apocalypse started. My doctor put my treatment on hold and recommended I see an allergist.
To my great relief, the allergist did not order me to swallow a Temodar pill and watch to see what happened. She only ordered a scratch test with serum made at a couple of different concentrations.
“If we get a positive reaction, that will certainly tell us something,” she said. “However, if we get a negative. Well, that doesn’t really tell us anything. There isn’t a whole lot of literature on this.”
There was no reaction, but based on the symptoms I’d reported and some lab work I’d had done to investigate whether DRESS syndrome was a potential culprit, she devised a basic plan of attack.
Her first choice for me would be to make a switch to a new chemo drug, if a suitable alternative is available. If not, she’d like to try desensitizing me to the Temodar so that I can continue with treatment and not lose progress on shrinking the fucker. (She did not call my tumor a fucker.)
Desensitizing would involve me taking micro doses over a longer period of time. They’d keep me under observation and monitor me for eosinophilia until they figure out what I can handle.
So my allergist and my oncologist are going to have a chat about next steps. In the meantime, I’m just holding tight and enjoying some relatively decent days without chemo.
Next Monday is my Temodar allergy test. To get accurate results, there are many medications the allergist has asked me to stop taking. Things like Benadryl, hydroxyzine, nortriptyline. (Not that I take these things regularly, but I’m especially supposed to not take them right now for reasons I will assume are obvious.)
Medical cannabis is not on the no-no list that was mailed to me, but then it wouldn’t be. So I took myself off of it too. Because I don’t want to have to repeat any tests or suffer the consequences of inaccurate results.
So when I got up this morning stiff, sore, unrefreshed, and the most not-morning-person I’ve been in a couple of weeks, I said out loud “I miss you, Pot.”
Eating half a medical cannabis peanut butter cookie with a scoop of ice cream at 7 p.m. has become something of a ritual for me. Like being tucked in by my parents when I was five. My 1:1 CBD/THC cookie kicks in about 9:30 or 10:00 pm. It’s then you’ll find me relaxing in my recliner until I can’t keep my eyes open and I move to bed.
I sleep well until my dexamethasone hunger and the rising sun wake me up. And let me tell you, after literal years of pain-related insomnia, good sleep is perhaps my favorite thing about cannabis.
But that’s not really what this post is about. It’s just my roundabout way of explaining to you why I was up and restless last night and how I knew that Dan was awake all night long too, despite trying to shuffle quietly around the house.
***
“You had a rough night? You were up a lot.”
“Yeah,” he said. “This tooth.”
His tooth has been nagging at him for months now, since about the time I was hospitalized. And because Dan has this habit of doing everything for me and pretty much nothing for himself, he’s been ignoring it. Or trying. I’ve noticed the Anbesol sitting out on the bathroom counter a lot more lately.
“You’re calling the dentist tomorrow. I know we don’t have dental, but we’ll figure it out,” I said.
“OK.”
“You have to put the oxygen mask on yourself first and all that shit.”
“I know.”
“You’re no good to me dead, Poehlman.”
***
This happened with another tooth a few years ago, and it turned into an emergency room visit and oral surgery a few days later. (Dan takes a biologic that makes him a high risk for infection, and the tooth abscessed, and…)
He has promised to call first thing tomorrow morning. If he requires oral surgery this time too, it will mean finding someone who can 1.) sit in the waiting room while he’s under anesthesia and 2.) drive him home when he’s finished and asking staff what time the X-Men are coming over for dinner.
It will also mean asking for more money from our support system.
As everyone’s probably tired of hearing by now, we have no income at present. So in preparation for the costs associated with The Next Thing™, I’m adjusting the goal for my YouCaring campaign and asking you to consider giving—or sharing the campaign on your blogs and social media.
