Cancer Journey Part 1
Just casually walking up the stairs to the platform of the train station could make my heart pound wildly, and palpitations could be felt at the back of my head. I reckoned my lips would have been pale and would purse my lips in an attempt to regain those ruddy ones. I wondered how many times it rendered useless because when I met up with friends on a few occasions, they brought to my attention how pallid I looked, even though I was at rest doing nothing strenuous. Without any knowledge of hitting anything, I began to find bruises appearing on my limps. All these symptoms appeared too suddenly, and I thought nothing of them initially until I felt something major might be lurking. I decided to make a trip down to the polyclinic and the night before, I experienced chills for the first time since those symptoms started manifesting - even more indicative that I should seek consultation soon. The blood test result at the polyclinic showed I was extremely low on my cell counts - red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets. The doctor was so alarmed that she rushed me to go to the A&E of my choice, in a tone filled with disbelief and urgency. I chose NUH, made a call to my mum to inform her of it, and texted my sister as well. When I left my house that fateful morning, I never thought I would be away from home for a long time - even my computer was in sleep mode and not shut down.
I was on a bed in the A&E department, waiting to be admitted to a ward. Few people swung by my bed to talk to me, including a doctor who hinted at the possibility of leukaemia, just not sure which type. A patient beside me: an uncle in his early fifties, overheard that and struck a conversation with me. He lamented that I had to meet with such a mishap when there's still a long road ahead of me, with hopes of a bright and glorious future, especially since I was a university graduate. In my heart I was thinking of the direct opposite. Future? It already seemed bleak to me after facing numerous failures in job applications. The prospect of cancer did not hit me that hard, probably because I was quite numb by all the setbacks in life. Having another on the list did not seem that much of a big deal.
My ward was 8C, an oncology ward in Kent Ridge Wing. It is a class C ward with 9 beds but my bed was away from the rest. It was in a place formally an office, and with the curtains drawn, nobody could see me from the outside. I was isolated in a way, and I liked it. However, it turned out that it was in a terrible, terrible position. It was near the entrance and between two toilets. Human traffic past my bed was the highest of them all, not to mention that the curtains served no soundproofing effect. Soon, tests were done on me and diagnosis and treatment followed closely. Everything was pretty efficient and ran like clockwork, with little or no time squandered. As they wanted to document my fluid input and output, I had to pee in urinals. I was also on constant saline drip, and paracetemol became my new best friend as I experienced fever almost everyday due to my low immunity. I was on bed the entire day except for that one time in the morning I go to the toilet to shower. The compact room where my bed was in, felt like a prison cell, and the IV line felt like a shackle, further restricting my movement.
I remember that day my primary consultant, Dr Yap, saw me for the first time. It turned out I have Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). He spoke in such solemn expression and tone that seemed to suggest that my condition was almost impossible to treat. I did not understand why he asked me if my eyes have always been protruding. My eyes are big, yes, and I get that a lot. But that was the very first time someone talked of protrusion, which I took as an offense. Although there were many challenges in life, I still trudged on. I guess living on is a form of not losing. That meeting with Dr Yap, however, set my self-esteem and outlook of life plummeting and made me wish that they could just euthanise me. A swift end to this miserable life would have been ideal instead of having to face prolonged suffering.
A bone marrow aspiration was performed on me. When the results were out, a Dr Lee came with the prognosis. He spoke in a similar fashion to Dr Yap, and drew deep breaths from time to time. I guess that was how they broke news to cancer patients and their family since cancer is a critical illness and they had to put up a serious front. However, I would have appreciated it had they injected some positivity and hope other than simply be a conveyor of harrowing news. It turned out that Dr Lee could actually be chatty and chirpy, and I shall elaborate on that later. A Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter (PICC) line was inserted into my right upper arm for easy long-term administration of drugs and for blood taking. This is unlike the standard IV line because the PICC line need not be changed if not for serious complications, and can spare one from being frequently impaled by a needle. With that, I was ready for the core treatment to start. For treatment of AML, there are two phases: induction, and consolidation. For the induction phase, I would first be on what is called the "3+7 Chemotherapy". The figures stand for the number of days I had to take two separate drugs. 3 days for this drug called daunorubicin, and 7 days for another called cytarabine/ara-C. This day, I got wind that one of the patients in the ward had developed shingles. Shingles is caused by the varicella zoster virus, the same virus that causes chicken pox. As it can be spread airborne, the other patients in the ward were given immunoglobulin for protection. I had contracted chicken pox before but since my immunity was poor, there was no telling that I would not contract it again. Another challenge on top of AML, I thought.
I was on a bed in the A&E department, waiting to be admitted to a ward. Few people swung by my bed to talk to me, including a doctor who hinted at the possibility of leukaemia, just not sure which type. A patient beside me: an uncle in his early fifties, overheard that and struck a conversation with me. He lamented that I had to meet with such a mishap when there's still a long road ahead of me, with hopes of a bright and glorious future, especially since I was a university graduate. In my heart I was thinking of the direct opposite. Future? It already seemed bleak to me after facing numerous failures in job applications. The prospect of cancer did not hit me that hard, probably because I was quite numb by all the setbacks in life. Having another on the list did not seem that much of a big deal.
My ward was 8C, an oncology ward in Kent Ridge Wing. It is a class C ward with 9 beds but my bed was away from the rest. It was in a place formally an office, and with the curtains drawn, nobody could see me from the outside. I was isolated in a way, and I liked it. However, it turned out that it was in a terrible, terrible position. It was near the entrance and between two toilets. Human traffic past my bed was the highest of them all, not to mention that the curtains served no soundproofing effect. Soon, tests were done on me and diagnosis and treatment followed closely. Everything was pretty efficient and ran like clockwork, with little or no time squandered. As they wanted to document my fluid input and output, I had to pee in urinals. I was also on constant saline drip, and paracetemol became my new best friend as I experienced fever almost everyday due to my low immunity. I was on bed the entire day except for that one time in the morning I go to the toilet to shower. The compact room where my bed was in, felt like a prison cell, and the IV line felt like a shackle, further restricting my movement.
I remember that day my primary consultant, Dr Yap, saw me for the first time. It turned out I have Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). He spoke in such solemn expression and tone that seemed to suggest that my condition was almost impossible to treat. I did not understand why he asked me if my eyes have always been protruding. My eyes are big, yes, and I get that a lot. But that was the very first time someone talked of protrusion, which I took as an offense. Although there were many challenges in life, I still trudged on. I guess living on is a form of not losing. That meeting with Dr Yap, however, set my self-esteem and outlook of life plummeting and made me wish that they could just euthanise me. A swift end to this miserable life would have been ideal instead of having to face prolonged suffering.
A bone marrow aspiration was performed on me. When the results were out, a Dr Lee came with the prognosis. He spoke in a similar fashion to Dr Yap, and drew deep breaths from time to time. I guess that was how they broke news to cancer patients and their family since cancer is a critical illness and they had to put up a serious front. However, I would have appreciated it had they injected some positivity and hope other than simply be a conveyor of harrowing news. It turned out that Dr Lee could actually be chatty and chirpy, and I shall elaborate on that later. A Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter (PICC) line was inserted into my right upper arm for easy long-term administration of drugs and for blood taking. This is unlike the standard IV line because the PICC line need not be changed if not for serious complications, and can spare one from being frequently impaled by a needle. With that, I was ready for the core treatment to start. For treatment of AML, there are two phases: induction, and consolidation. For the induction phase, I would first be on what is called the "3+7 Chemotherapy". The figures stand for the number of days I had to take two separate drugs. 3 days for this drug called daunorubicin, and 7 days for another called cytarabine/ara-C. This day, I got wind that one of the patients in the ward had developed shingles. Shingles is caused by the varicella zoster virus, the same virus that causes chicken pox. As it can be spread airborne, the other patients in the ward were given immunoglobulin for protection. I had contracted chicken pox before but since my immunity was poor, there was no telling that I would not contract it again. Another challenge on top of AML, I thought.
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