Budapest and Vitmain C Infusion

[A ‘to be fair’ addition. The following friday after this post (i.e. today, when I’m writing this update), the infusion went far better. I think having my translator with me – Zsolt the human Hungarian-English dictionary – was really helpful. Plus, I was more prepared in the vein department. I looked like that kid in the Robert Munch story, Thomas’ Snowsuit. So, it has improved!]

Hey there, how you doing?

The man (Zsolt) and I are finally in Hungary for Christmas with his family. It was a pretty awesome to be invited over by his folks, but also an adventure that has presented itself with challenges. The biggest quetion being, how can we travel for long periods when I’m getting treatment? Mind you, it’s not “treatment” if you know what I mean – as in, it’s not the treatment-that-shall-not-be-named. There is no nausea as a result, or hair loss, or illness of any kind. Actually, infusions of vitmain c (IVC) kinda rock in that there are no heavy-handed side effects.

Anyhow, I had spoken with the naturopath in Ottawa about taking a month long break from IVC, and she said, “I’ve seen it be done before, but the results weren’t very good…”

Gulp.

So, how to travel and still get my infusions?

We were scrambling over this for a while, trying to find clinics that might offer the IVC service. I’d found many in Austria who offer IVC. Zsolt came up rather thin in Hungary, however he did find a clinic in Budapest that offers vitmain infusions. From there, he found a doctor who was willing to allow me to get my Vitamin C infusions, providing I bring along the vitamin C myself, which I have done. So, what follows is an email to my mother describing yesterday’s expereince. I’d like to say before diving into that little adventure, that I pray this won’t be the normal course of events. And it really is incredibly good of the doctor to allow me to have these treatments in her clinic. (It’s a fertility clinic by the way, the irony of that doesn’t allude me. Except of course, if there is no irony and I’ve just pulled an Alantis Morriset in making the suggestion. Whatever.) So despite all my winging, looking back I am of course grateful for this accomodation.

Here’s a little taste of what happens when travel and treatment meet. Plus, throw in a fever and a language barrier, just for some extra fun. šŸ™‚

Hi Mom,

The doctor’s was a mess. I mean, in the end we got there – but it was a crap day as a whole. The night before the doctor appointment, Zsolt got a fever. Then, the day of the appointment, his fever was waning but he had terrible heart burn. So in the end it was decided that he should not come along. Therefore, I took a taxi into Budapest and met his sis & bro-in-law [I have cut out their names for this post] at the doctor’s.

No one at the clinic spoke English.

We wait and wait,then go into for the appointment. So the doctor spoke to Zsolt’s sis & bro-in-law and hardly to me at all. I think I scare people with my total lack of Hungarian. Meanwhile, I’m just so knackered from Zsolt having been sick and all this travelling – I look like a total mess.

Anyhow. Finally that meeting is over, and it’s time for my vitamin C. This is where it gets really ridiculous. The doctor insists I drink water, go to the bathroom, and rince my arm in warm water. And she keeps saying this over and over, so Bro-in-law translates it to me over and over. And I’m like, “yeah, I’ve don’t this a million times already – okay, 15 times”.

So Zsolt’ sis & bro-in-law leave because this is all on their lunch break and they need to get back to work. It’s just me and the nurses who come along to give me the infusion. There are two nurses, who seem like lovely people but are utterly incapable at this infusion thing. They have me sit in a lounge chair with no arms on which I can rest my arm. And they try to get me to let them use my elbow vein. But i’m like, “no way, you need to use my hand” and that freaks them out even more. There are two of them, and they are doing everything together – checking my veins, going over to the heater and turning it on because it’s damn cold in the room, coming back, going off together to microwave my gel pack (which I bought the day before), coming back.

Eventually they try a vein in my hand. Unfortunately, they didn’t get it. But they don’t even try again. Instead they say, “We need to go and get the doctor.ā€ They say it in Hungarian, but ‘doktor’ is easy to understand.

So – one poke, and they go get the doctor. Except the doctor is busy (not that they tell me that, they tell me nothing), and I’m sitting in that room alone for about 45 minutes. FINALLY the doctor comes in, but she doesn’t want to use my hand veins. She wants to use my elbow. I am SO fed up, that I say fine, use the elbow.

So she does. It eventually goes in, because it’s a really hard vein, and they start the drip.

Okay, so there are two bags. The nurse tells me about one hour, so I reckon I’ll be done in one hour. I call up Zsolt (his Dad drove back up from Pecs to drive us down to Pecs after the appointment since Zsolt was sick earlier) and tell him to get over to the place (since he is feeling better) because I’m alone in a room with no way of calling for help if it were needed.

About an hour later, the bag appears to be done, and Zsolt and his Dad arrive. I sit up, thinking this is all over and am ready to go. Except the nurse comes in and says there’s another bag. My sitting up has shifted the needle without my realization that it was out of the vein. The nurse hooks up the second bag, leaves, and I say to Zsolt, “This doesn’t feel right.”

And it wasn’t right, because the needle wasn’t in my vein at all, and the drip is just going into my arm. Soon I notice the damn bubble under my skin – tell Zsolt to turn off the drop and go get the nurse, which he does. The nurse comes in and removes the needed. Then, we collectively agree that this is enough for today, and I’m getting the hell out of there.

So, I did about 25 grams of Vitmain C. I guess that’s better than nothing. On Friday I hope to God it goes better. Zsolt says that this is a women’s clinic, and they hardly ever do infusions, which is why they are so nervous. Maybe it would have been better to get this done in Vienna. It was miserable, no joking. I am hoping that next Friday I can help them more with how to do the infusion with Zsolt’s translation.

Zsolt is much better now. He says his illness was much like what happened several years ago when we were living in England and he had a fever out of nowhere. We’re back in Pecs now, I slept in till 10 and had breakfast in bed. It has restored my sanity, though I am not looking forward to Friday when we drive back up for another infusion. BUT my life is important and I guess that means tolerating some nervous nurses and a whole lot of Hungarian I don’t understand.

;p So, I am doing my best over here. Though I do miss home šŸ™‚

And there is a very long answer toĀ  your question šŸ™‚

Love,
Catherine”

The Sherlock of Speculation

The bone scan was today. I won’t go into too much since I already wrote a detail-rich post on bone scanning about 3Ā  years ago. Except here in Canada they put an elastic around your feet and wrap you up in a cocoon-thing. No wonder some people get claustrophobic. But mostly it’s like being put to bed for a nap.

bone scan

Though one odd thing happened, and now I feel compelled to over-analyze it. Before the scan the technician was asking all kinds of questions.

ā€œDo you know why you’re here?ā€

ā€œYeah,ā€ I replied. ā€œOh, do you not know why I’m here?ā€

ā€œI just need to make sure you know.ā€

Okay. So I tell her. I’m there because of breast cancer.

ā€œWhere?ā€ she asks.

ā€œRight side,ā€ I say.

Then she says something along the lines of ā€œyou have breast cancer on you right side.ā€

And I say, ā€œNo, I don’t know if I have breast cancer.ā€

ā€œYou don’t know?ā€

ā€œI had it three years ago.ā€

Then she asks if I’ve had follow ups, operations, dental work, etc. And then says, ā€œSo why do you need this scan?ā€

To which I reply, ā€œI wanted to get pregnant, and so they did a CT and found some spots on my lungs. I don’t know what they are, but we’re checking for cancer.ā€

That conversation went back and forth like a game of ping pong. She wasn’t rude or anything, but I got the feeling she was trying to determine whether I ā€œknew what was happeningā€. But I swear I didn’t show up the scan looking like a hot mess, or falling over drunk, and wouldn’t it be so much more sane to completely forget the shit storm that has caused this anxiety than be able to remember every freaking detail?

ANYHOW.

The scan happens. It’s easy. If you are going to get a scan, I say, “Make it a bone scan!”

And afterwards, as I hop off the table and grab my shoes to go, she says the weirdest thing: ā€œGood luck with your pregnancy and all that other stuff.ā€

Okay, thanks?

Do technicians know the power of their words? Do they realize we patients of paranoia analyze every sound that comes out of their mouths? ā€œGood luck with your pregnancy and all that other stuff.ā€ What does that mean, oh great Sherlock of speculation? Ā Has she peered into my future and saw that there’s no cancer? Does she think my oncologist is totally overreacting? Did she get distracted by the end-of-day procedures and just say the first thing that came to her mind, possibly relating to the concept of pregnancy because she too is trying to get pregnant?

I just don’t know, and I guess I’ll never know.

In other news, today Zsolt and I underwent the serious process of making pickles. It involved cleaning jars, pouring water into a pot then pouring it back into measuring cups since we didn’t know the quantity (or rather, I didn’t believe Zsolt’s guess of 5 litres that turned out to be correct), adding salt to the water, slicing the cucumbers after they were cleaned, adding dill, garlic and bay leaves Ā to the jars, sticking the cucumbers into the jars, and topping them with toasted sour dough bread. Then, everything was placed into the sun.

It’s been HOT these past few days. The apartment is above thirty degrees (Canadian for ā€˜damn hot’), we have been stinking and sweating and sweating and stinking – so what do you do in a heat wave? Make pickles.

In other news, we’ve discovered an amazing pond that isn’t too far away from the apartment. It’s really an old quarry that’s been filled with water, and the locals go swimming in the ā€˜pond’ – the whole thing feels like camp, and it’s the sort of exercise that I’m actually really happy to do. There’s magic in water, particularly nature and water, and I’m really thankful that in this time of crap and coping, there’s a place so full of laughter.

And that was today. Next week is going to be nuts: scans and meetings every day. But maybe, if miracles can happen, they’ll bring me some good news too. We’ll see. Even when I feel like I’ve lost my hope, little bits of it float back up and I think, ā€œmaybe, just maybe it will be okay.ā€

So here’s hoping. Pregnancy, pickles and ponds. That’s what I want. Oh, and that trip to the beach I mentioned before! šŸ™‚

The Parade of Appointments

Good afternoon from Montreal, Quebec! The Zsoltster and I have been here the past couple days while he attends the International Startup Festival down at the port of the city. I’ve been at my cousin’s house hanging out with his lovely family. It’s really nice to be around kids – they pull you out of yourself, and I don’t think about my worries when we play together or make lunch or just plain hang out. It’s really nice to not think about things, sometimes.

That being said, I’m still thinking about things at all other times in the day. It’s this weird morbidity that I’m having trouble shaking off. The other day we watched the Disney movie where a Navy dad with eight kids marries an artistic mom with ten kids. Both the man and the woman ā€˜lost their partners, who died a few years before’ and that’s all that is said about it. I nearly started crying right there during the Disney movie. But maybe that’s a post for another day.

In terms of what is actually happening (rather than what seems to be happening in my head, and I’m really trying to rewire even if it keeps creeping back in), the next several weeks will be a parade of appointments.

In this parade, we’ll see that familiar float, the bone scan – glowing skeletons will march down the parade route and be scanned for cancer by doctors with giant magnifying glasses and white lab coats, and then for some new exciting additions;

there will be a pulmonary test thing – which is, of course, the love float, with a lace-rimmed giant heart made of papier-mĆ¢chĆ© and filling the air full of soap bubbles from the bubble machine that’s hidden on the stage behind a heart-shaped topiary;

and a lung capacity thing – imagine massive yellow air balloons hovering over the crowd, breathing in the air as the flame fills them up bigger and bigger, with the lovely and daring Amelia (from that book I was/am writing . . .) inside and waving down to the crowd;

plus a stage one fitness test – I don’t know what that is, but I imagine it’s all the mom joggers out there converging in the parade and representing mommy chic, pushing their children in bright-coloured carriages with one hand and holding up gymnastic streamers with the other as the space above them fills with mingling ribbons;

a PET scan – which is all about sugar, as you might know, or radioactive glucose, so that float has got to be a giant honey pot oozing out onto the street and making things sticky for all other parade-walkers, and the honey crawls across the float searching out cancer to soak it up, except the organizer forgot to pack the ā€˜cancer’ sponges and so there’s absolutely no cancer there to soak up the honey, and it just runs over and eventually disappears into the sewers after the cleaners wash it away;

plus I have two meetings at cancer centres in Ottawa that offer integrative care. I have two meetings at two Ā places because if this is something then I want to go somewhere that feels right, and work with doctors who have both compassion and expertise. So imagine two football teams charging down the road on the parade route, pushing away any semblance of a threat. Hut-huting and competing to be the very best cancer-killing football team between the two of them;

next we have the ā€˜Santa Claus’ finish with what equates to the lung surgeon and my oncologist. I have appointments with these experts, and I guess they’ll be giving me the bottom line on everything.

And then at the end of that parade are Zsolt and me, walking hand in hand and full-on knackered from all this walking and participating. We’re waving, but really all we want to do is stop and rest on the sidelines. Maybe get a sausage and a cold lemonade? It would be much, much nicer to just watch and not participate. There is no float I want to wave from, no marching band I want to try for, no streamer I want to twirl.

And there you have it. It’s emotional and difficult. But I’m holding onto that bit of hope that feels so small compared to the mountain of tests and biopsies and crap I’m about to endure. Even when the morbidity sneaks in, even when my resilience fails . . . hope and love (cause we can’t forget love) bring me back eventually. Today we are here, and today we don’t have cancer. Not officially, and hopefully, not physically either.

Parades happen and they can be quite the spectacle, but I’d much rather go to the beach instead.