On the home front:
So that "vacation" didn't turn out quite like I'd planned. I'd expected to be reveling in the joy of infrequent doctor appointments, and a fatter wallet from a couple if "co-pay-less" weeks, but our sweet kitty was attacked by a coyote on 6/13/2015. After multiple surgeries, two weeks of wearing the cone of shame, and the care of his angel Aunt Cathy - who has saved his life, and ours, multiple times and on multiple occasions these past couple of weeks - it looks like he is on the mend. Every day that he feels better, he's a little more of a tyrant - so by that formula he's been feeling really good for the past couple of days. Keith has been a saint, waking up with him in the middle of the night to take care of kitty cat bathroom emergencies, sitting perfectly still for hours while Bobby naps on his knees, and carrying him around the house like a taco - with his little cat bed folded in half around him. Meanwhile I dispense medications (down a reluctant cat's throat), wash countless loads of laundry, and sleep through his midnight meows.
On the cancer front:
Living with a chronic disease is not an easy thing. Every time I see the doctor, every time I have labs drawn, I'm hopeful that things will be better. Maybe I should reconsider my basic approach. In the words of Llyod Dobler from Say Anything, "If you start out depressed, everything's kind of a pleasant surprise." Maybe that's my mistake. Anticipating some great rebound; an amazing recovery - when the truth of the matter is that I have cancer. Not only do I have cancer, I have a chronic cancer - a cancer that can be treated, but cannot be cured. It's a tough pill to swallow - knowing that I will always have cancer. Even if it's only in a minuscule number of cells, it will always be there, insidious, lurking, waiting for an opportunity to gain the upper hand - if I let it. (Don't worry. I'm not going to let it.)
Not a lot of you know this, but I went and got a "second opinion" from another oncologist last month. It was a weird messed up situation, because it was in the same practice - the same office - as my current doctor, and I actually ran into him immediately following my consultation. I had the new doctor review my treatment, my status, and my concerns. He told me that the only thing that he would change about my current treatment was that he would run a Kinase Mutation test, in order to guide the selection of the medication that I am on. Oh, and don't worry, he'd let my oncologist know. (So much for keeping my concerns about the treatment that I was receiving on the down low.)
After much confusion about ordering the correct test from the lab, the results are in, and I do have a mutation. The mutation that I have is called an "insertion" mutation. This mutation indicates a resistance to imatinib (Gleevec) which makes sense, considering my prior Gleevec history. All research indicates that Sprycel (which I'm on) Tasigna, and newer TKI's will work well against this mutation.
And as far as I know, Sprycel is working well. Too well. Blood counts are low again. For those of you that are keeping track: As of 6/23/2015: Hemoglobin is at 8.7 (not too low, but consider, I did have 2 units of blood transfused on 6/6/15.) Platelets are at 35. Abysmal. And ANC is 700. Which is also concerning. Last week, I agreed to another shot of Procrit, and my doctor agreed to letting me go two weeks between appointments. Negotiation.
One of the hardest parts of having cancer, in this moment, is the fact that I never have any good news. I constantly have to give Keith, my family, our friends, and my co-workers bad news about my health. I try to down play it. "Aw well, don't worry. I'll do better next time." I've been using that line for too long now. The truth is I'm tired. I'm covered in bruises, and I live in constant fear of getting an infection. Right now, cancer-wise there is no good news. I'm sure that there will be again, someday. Just not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Showing posts with label Pancytopenia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pancytopenia. Show all posts
Friday, July 3, 2015
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Vampires and Pincushions
I've been doing my best impression of a pincushion this week. I've been poked by needles six times in five days. Just after I'd commented on how it doesn't phase me anymore I was put to the test.
My Tuesday appointment was an absolute waste of time. When I got there, I found that the lab had "lost" my blood work. (Needle poke one.) The nurse told me that they had sent her the wrong info, for someone with a name very similar to mine. (If they transposed them, poor Rachel Ball is going to get the shock of her life.) The doctor had nothing to tell me, except that he was going on vacation the next week, and so had me go back to the lab and give blood again (needle poke two), and scheduled a Friday blood draw (needle poke three). Hemoglobin came in at 7.9 on Tuesday, with platelets actually coming up a little from the previous week at 32 instead of the dismal 22 of the week before. White blood cell count stayed the same. On Friday, my hemoglobin and platelets actually held, which made me think that they had gotten things mixed up again, and were reading the wrong results, except for the fact that my white blood cells came up a little. Maybe this is the beginning of an upwards trend. Fingers and toes crossed.
Despite the fact that my hemoglobin held, my doctor scheduled me for a blood transfusion, anyway. Because he was going on vacation, and would not be in the office for ten days, he didn't want to take any chances that my red blood cells would tank again. So, after driving down the hill on Friday, coming back up, and working a full work day, I had to go back down again to the hospital to get crossed and typed (needle poke four) for a blood transfusion on Saturday.
I was late to my appointment Saturday. This was my first time receiving a transfusion at the "transfusion center". The nurse monitoring the transfusions was irritated with me for being late, and wiggled the needle around in my forearm (needle poke five) for a couple of minutes, unable to get the vein, before giving up, and placing in the inside bend of my elbow (needle poke six). Yes, I have gotten used to needles and blood draws, but if you've never had one, IV needles are the pits. I can't look at them when they put them in. They're about the size of a sewing machine needle - stiff long and painful.
They pushed two units of blood, and this time, it went much quicker - about three and a half hours total. Downside to the quick transfusion was that I was freezing cold by the time I finished. They keep the blood refrigerated, and you can apparently get hypothermia, if you're transfused too quickly. I had to go out and sit in the sun for ten minutes to warm up at all, and looked like a crazy person wearing a fleece lined sweatshirt in 75 degree weather.
So this week, I look like a junkie with bruises all up and down my arms, but I can breathe and I don't have any tightness in my chest, so I suppose it's worth it. That, paired with the fact that I don't have to see the doctor again until the 15th makes me feel like I'm on vacation myself.
My Tuesday appointment was an absolute waste of time. When I got there, I found that the lab had "lost" my blood work. (Needle poke one.) The nurse told me that they had sent her the wrong info, for someone with a name very similar to mine. (If they transposed them, poor Rachel Ball is going to get the shock of her life.) The doctor had nothing to tell me, except that he was going on vacation the next week, and so had me go back to the lab and give blood again (needle poke two), and scheduled a Friday blood draw (needle poke three). Hemoglobin came in at 7.9 on Tuesday, with platelets actually coming up a little from the previous week at 32 instead of the dismal 22 of the week before. White blood cell count stayed the same. On Friday, my hemoglobin and platelets actually held, which made me think that they had gotten things mixed up again, and were reading the wrong results, except for the fact that my white blood cells came up a little. Maybe this is the beginning of an upwards trend. Fingers and toes crossed.
Despite the fact that my hemoglobin held, my doctor scheduled me for a blood transfusion, anyway. Because he was going on vacation, and would not be in the office for ten days, he didn't want to take any chances that my red blood cells would tank again. So, after driving down the hill on Friday, coming back up, and working a full work day, I had to go back down again to the hospital to get crossed and typed (needle poke four) for a blood transfusion on Saturday.
I was late to my appointment Saturday. This was my first time receiving a transfusion at the "transfusion center". The nurse monitoring the transfusions was irritated with me for being late, and wiggled the needle around in my forearm (needle poke five) for a couple of minutes, unable to get the vein, before giving up, and placing in the inside bend of my elbow (needle poke six). Yes, I have gotten used to needles and blood draws, but if you've never had one, IV needles are the pits. I can't look at them when they put them in. They're about the size of a sewing machine needle - stiff long and painful.
They pushed two units of blood, and this time, it went much quicker - about three and a half hours total. Downside to the quick transfusion was that I was freezing cold by the time I finished. They keep the blood refrigerated, and you can apparently get hypothermia, if you're transfused too quickly. I had to go out and sit in the sun for ten minutes to warm up at all, and looked like a crazy person wearing a fleece lined sweatshirt in 75 degree weather.
So this week, I look like a junkie with bruises all up and down my arms, but I can breathe and I don't have any tightness in my chest, so I suppose it's worth it. That, paired with the fact that I don't have to see the doctor again until the 15th makes me feel like I'm on vacation myself.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
More Good News...
I've only ever donated blood once in my life. (And all things considered, knowing what I know now, I hope they poured that bag of it down the drain.) It was back during my college years, and the blood-mobile would make regular appearances on campus. One day, I thought "What the heck? Lets spend an hour doing something nice for someone else." It did not go smoothly. Don't get me wrong, it came out all right, but then, as I was sitting in the back sipping some juice, everything went sweaty and black. I woke on the floor, half jammed under a seat of the bus, clutching my "I gave blood!" pin, in a puddle of orange juice. Not the ideal experience.
Given that little episode, I was pretty surprised when I received a card in the mail a couple of weeks later, thanking me for my donation, and giving my specimen an A+. I swelled with pride. Good job, me. Until I realized that the A+ was my blood type, and not a grade.
Since that day, I've probably had to have blood drawn for testing over 100 times. If ever I was squeamish at all, I got over it long ago. Most of you probably don't know this, but every time they draw blood they ask you if you have any history of problems with blood draws...I lie every time.
So while I've only ever given blood one time, I've been the recipient of it on numerous occasions. First, in the hospital when I was diagnosed with CML and undergoing leukapherisis (I think that the process pulled out too much of the "good cells" along with the bad.) Now, once again, over Memorial Weekend they topped off my blood supply.
Pretty sure that my doctor hates me. Why else would he send me to the emergency room over the Memorial Day weekend? Oh, yeah, hemoglobin 7.1, and the feeling that my chest was caving in - that's probably why. My appointment on the Friday before the holiday weekend left much to be desired, as my red blood cell count fell again. Platelets and white blood cells held at pretty much the same marginally crappy levels from the week before, but the hemoglobin keeps going down down. Hemoglobin at 7.1 is pretty darn low. Most people get a blood transfusion at 8.0, but I seem to feel well enough at 8. Below 8.0 is considered severely anemic, and below 6.5 is considered life threatening. So at 7.1 I was flirting with disaster. To be fair, my doctor did try to send me to the hospital to get "typed and crossed" that afternoon, but considering that it was 3pm on the Friday preceding the holiday weekend, everyone at the transfusion center had left for the day. As my hemoglobin level seemed to be falling .2-.5 weekly, my oncologist did not want for me to have to wait until the following Tuesday to get a transfusion, so he told me to go to the Emergency Room over the weekend.
I tried to get out of it. Told Keith that I was feeling fine. But when you're panting for breath after folding a load of laundry, that "I'm fine" line is a tough one to sell.
I completely expected that the Emergency Room would be expecting me. Thought that my doctor would have made some kind of arrangement to get me in and out fast. Thought wrong.
When we got there on Saturday, they were mercifully not busy. There were only a couple of people waiting, and by the time I had signed in and used the restroom, they were calling me back. I waited in a triage room for about half an hour, when a Doctor finally came over to interview me. I gave him the spiel. "I have leukemia. My hemoglobin was at 7.1 as of the 20th, and instead of waiting until Tuesday to come in for a transfusion, my oncologist told me to come to the emergency room." Yeah, I don't think that he was listening. Or else he didn't believe me. I look pale, but otherwise remarkably healthy for a cancer patient with severe anemia, so he ordered a chest x-ray, an ekg, and a blood test. I submitted, with a little irritation, fully aware that this little trip was most likely going to take all day.
And it did. After jumping through most of his hoops - I refused to pee in his cup, but I submitted to everything else -finally my blood test comes back, and the doctor comes up to me, honestly looking a little alarmed, and says that they are going to give me a unit of blood. My hemoglobin level is at 6.8. Super. Make that two and I'll be out of your hair.
He refuses two. Really? Depending on height and weight, one unit of blood will generally raise your hemoglobin about 1 full point. So at 6.8, one unit is only going to get me to 7.8. Considering that I've been trending down as much as .5 weekly, that will mean that I'll be right back around where I started in a little over a week. And I definitely did not give up my Saturday to be right back in the hospital again in a week.
So they give me a bed, and they give me a gown (if you're in a bed you've got to wear a gown) and a nice nurse named Jordan puts in an IV, and I wait for my blood. Did you know that it takes anywhere from 2-4 hours for each unit of blood transfused? Me neither. The last time I went through this, getting blood was the least traumatic of everything that was happening to me, so I wasn't really watching the clock. They hook me up, and everything goes well. No reactions. And the pressure on my chest begins to lighten, and my color begins to return. (I've been looking a little ghostly.)
As the last bits of the bag are pumped into me the doctor comes over and asks how I'm feeling. "Better," I say. "It would be nice, if you could give me another unit, though. I understand if you guys are busy, and you need the bed, but I feel like if I don't get two, I'll be right back in this position next week. My doctor did want me to have two." He gives in. So that'll be another couple hours I don't want to spend there, but I'm considering it the lesser of two evils. Better another two hours in the emergency room,than another whole day.
They start the next bag at about 7pm. We've been there since around noon. Since I didn't have any complications, they were able to transfuse me quickly, and it only took about 2 hours for each unit. When I'm done, they unhook me, flush my line, and pull my IV. Dismissed. Literally. No escort to the door, no spotter to make sure that I can walk. That is literally that.
As we walk to the car, I notice that all of my chest pressure is gone. I check myself in the side mirror, and my lips are actually pink. While the thought of getting someone else's blood pumped into you is pretty gross, the reality of it is a blessing.
So the past week I've been amazed at how much better I feel. I can actually breathe deep breaths and my heart doesn't race when I walk out and get in my car in the mornings. I even took a hike. A very slow, out of shape, heart pumping hike - but it feels good to be able to exercise a little bit again.
Given how much better I've been feeling, I was a little shocked that my numbers this week were so bad. Or "sucky" as my doctor called them. After an entire 12 hours at the emergency room, and two units of blood, my hemoglobin this week is at 8.3. We were both hoping for something better. Even worse, my platelets have plummeted to 22, and my ANC has hit an all time low at 699. If it's not one damn thing, it's another damn thing.
The choices are pretty limited at this point. Choice one are stimulating drugs like procrit for the low red blood cells and neupogen or neulasta if my whites get too low. There are some pretty scary risks associated with accepting these drugs, so understandably, I'd like to keep my use of them to an absolute minimum, if at all possible. Choice two are transfusions. There are also risks associated with red blood cell and platelet transfusions, like allergic reaction, or contracting something from the blood product that you've been transfused with, ranging all the way from the big scary HIV or hepatitis, to a less scary virus. And choice three, stopping Sprycel for a period of time to allow my counts to regulate/come back up. The biggest issue with this one, is that while my healthy cells will hopefully rebound, so will the leukemic cells, and the cancerous cells may once again multiply unchecked. Like my blood counts, my choices are pretty sucky.
Doctors plan of action for this upcoming week has been to change my appointment to Tuesday, instead of Friday in case I need another transfusion. That way, one can be arranged before the weekend. Personal plan of action for this week - soldier on.
Oh joy.
"Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end!" - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Given that little episode, I was pretty surprised when I received a card in the mail a couple of weeks later, thanking me for my donation, and giving my specimen an A+. I swelled with pride. Good job, me. Until I realized that the A+ was my blood type, and not a grade.
Since that day, I've probably had to have blood drawn for testing over 100 times. If ever I was squeamish at all, I got over it long ago. Most of you probably don't know this, but every time they draw blood they ask you if you have any history of problems with blood draws...I lie every time.
So while I've only ever given blood one time, I've been the recipient of it on numerous occasions. First, in the hospital when I was diagnosed with CML and undergoing leukapherisis (I think that the process pulled out too much of the "good cells" along with the bad.) Now, once again, over Memorial Weekend they topped off my blood supply.
Pretty sure that my doctor hates me. Why else would he send me to the emergency room over the Memorial Day weekend? Oh, yeah, hemoglobin 7.1, and the feeling that my chest was caving in - that's probably why. My appointment on the Friday before the holiday weekend left much to be desired, as my red blood cell count fell again. Platelets and white blood cells held at pretty much the same marginally crappy levels from the week before, but the hemoglobin keeps going down down. Hemoglobin at 7.1 is pretty darn low. Most people get a blood transfusion at 8.0, but I seem to feel well enough at 8. Below 8.0 is considered severely anemic, and below 6.5 is considered life threatening. So at 7.1 I was flirting with disaster. To be fair, my doctor did try to send me to the hospital to get "typed and crossed" that afternoon, but considering that it was 3pm on the Friday preceding the holiday weekend, everyone at the transfusion center had left for the day. As my hemoglobin level seemed to be falling .2-.5 weekly, my oncologist did not want for me to have to wait until the following Tuesday to get a transfusion, so he told me to go to the Emergency Room over the weekend.
I tried to get out of it. Told Keith that I was feeling fine. But when you're panting for breath after folding a load of laundry, that "I'm fine" line is a tough one to sell.
I completely expected that the Emergency Room would be expecting me. Thought that my doctor would have made some kind of arrangement to get me in and out fast. Thought wrong.
When we got there on Saturday, they were mercifully not busy. There were only a couple of people waiting, and by the time I had signed in and used the restroom, they were calling me back. I waited in a triage room for about half an hour, when a Doctor finally came over to interview me. I gave him the spiel. "I have leukemia. My hemoglobin was at 7.1 as of the 20th, and instead of waiting until Tuesday to come in for a transfusion, my oncologist told me to come to the emergency room." Yeah, I don't think that he was listening. Or else he didn't believe me. I look pale, but otherwise remarkably healthy for a cancer patient with severe anemia, so he ordered a chest x-ray, an ekg, and a blood test. I submitted, with a little irritation, fully aware that this little trip was most likely going to take all day.
And it did. After jumping through most of his hoops - I refused to pee in his cup, but I submitted to everything else -finally my blood test comes back, and the doctor comes up to me, honestly looking a little alarmed, and says that they are going to give me a unit of blood. My hemoglobin level is at 6.8. Super. Make that two and I'll be out of your hair.
He refuses two. Really? Depending on height and weight, one unit of blood will generally raise your hemoglobin about 1 full point. So at 6.8, one unit is only going to get me to 7.8. Considering that I've been trending down as much as .5 weekly, that will mean that I'll be right back around where I started in a little over a week. And I definitely did not give up my Saturday to be right back in the hospital again in a week.
So they give me a bed, and they give me a gown (if you're in a bed you've got to wear a gown) and a nice nurse named Jordan puts in an IV, and I wait for my blood. Did you know that it takes anywhere from 2-4 hours for each unit of blood transfused? Me neither. The last time I went through this, getting blood was the least traumatic of everything that was happening to me, so I wasn't really watching the clock. They hook me up, and everything goes well. No reactions. And the pressure on my chest begins to lighten, and my color begins to return. (I've been looking a little ghostly.)
As the last bits of the bag are pumped into me the doctor comes over and asks how I'm feeling. "Better," I say. "It would be nice, if you could give me another unit, though. I understand if you guys are busy, and you need the bed, but I feel like if I don't get two, I'll be right back in this position next week. My doctor did want me to have two." He gives in. So that'll be another couple hours I don't want to spend there, but I'm considering it the lesser of two evils. Better another two hours in the emergency room,than another whole day.
They start the next bag at about 7pm. We've been there since around noon. Since I didn't have any complications, they were able to transfuse me quickly, and it only took about 2 hours for each unit. When I'm done, they unhook me, flush my line, and pull my IV. Dismissed. Literally. No escort to the door, no spotter to make sure that I can walk. That is literally that.
As we walk to the car, I notice that all of my chest pressure is gone. I check myself in the side mirror, and my lips are actually pink. While the thought of getting someone else's blood pumped into you is pretty gross, the reality of it is a blessing.
So the past week I've been amazed at how much better I feel. I can actually breathe deep breaths and my heart doesn't race when I walk out and get in my car in the mornings. I even took a hike. A very slow, out of shape, heart pumping hike - but it feels good to be able to exercise a little bit again.
Given how much better I've been feeling, I was a little shocked that my numbers this week were so bad. Or "sucky" as my doctor called them. After an entire 12 hours at the emergency room, and two units of blood, my hemoglobin this week is at 8.3. We were both hoping for something better. Even worse, my platelets have plummeted to 22, and my ANC has hit an all time low at 699. If it's not one damn thing, it's another damn thing.
The choices are pretty limited at this point. Choice one are stimulating drugs like procrit for the low red blood cells and neupogen or neulasta if my whites get too low. There are some pretty scary risks associated with accepting these drugs, so understandably, I'd like to keep my use of them to an absolute minimum, if at all possible. Choice two are transfusions. There are also risks associated with red blood cell and platelet transfusions, like allergic reaction, or contracting something from the blood product that you've been transfused with, ranging all the way from the big scary HIV or hepatitis, to a less scary virus. And choice three, stopping Sprycel for a period of time to allow my counts to regulate/come back up. The biggest issue with this one, is that while my healthy cells will hopefully rebound, so will the leukemic cells, and the cancerous cells may once again multiply unchecked. Like my blood counts, my choices are pretty sucky.
Doctors plan of action for this upcoming week has been to change my appointment to Tuesday, instead of Friday in case I need another transfusion. That way, one can be arranged before the weekend. Personal plan of action for this week - soldier on.
Oh joy.
"Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end!" - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
I Get Knocked Down...
I can't seem to catch a break these days.
Procrit is a red blood cell stimulating shot. It's one of the drugs that Lance Armstrong used illicitly to increase the oxygen in his body, and give him a little boost to pedal faster and longer. "Procrit (epoetin alfa) is a man-made form of a protein that helps your body produce red blood cells." Sounds good right? Well, it would be, except for this: "Procrit can increase your risk of life-threatening heart or circulation problems, including heart attack or stroke. This risk will increase the longer you use epoetin alfa. Procrit may also shorten remission time or survival time in some people with certain types of cancer." So, yeah, there is that.
Side effects of the Procrit shot - which, by the way, was a stinging little mother trucker that they administered in the fat part of my arm, on Friday - was a headache that came on every time I stood up and moved around on Sunday, and a feeling like I was coming down with the flu. Both had pretty much passed by Monday morning. I also woke up with a petechiae rash on my hand, but that is more likely attributable to my low platelets than the procrit. Petechiae is described as: "Bleeding under the skin that can occur from broken blood vessels that form tiny pinpoint red dots (called petechiae). " This is the third bout of petechiae that I have gotten since Easter. So far, it has always shown up on my left hand, and has not been severe, so it wasn't exactly panic inducing. Just another routine f'd-up side effect. Not pretty, though.
Back to the Procrit. Procrit has a "black box" warning, which is the strongest warning that the FDA requires for prescription drugs. They're not sure about the long term effects of the drug, and the Procrit website even states, "Your tumor may grow faster and you may die sooner if you choose to take PROCRIT®." Living on the fringe, eh?
As scary as that is, to be honest, no one knows the long term side effects of the TKI (tyrosine-kinase inhibitor) cancer drugs that most people with CML are currently taking. Gleevec, the first drug approved for targeted therapy in CML was just approved back in 2001. Sprycel (the drug that I'm currently on) wasn't approved until 2006. So there are less than 20 years or so of research that monitor long term effects. For all they know, everyone on a TKI could sprout wings and a tail during their 30th year of treatment. So we are - those of us that are on these drugs so close to their inception - essentially, all guinea pigs, anyway. Much better than the dismal 5 year survival rate of the past, so thanks to TKI's, at least I'll be alive to witness my transformation into a dragon at age 63.
Here's to hoping for a better week, with better test results on Friday. In the meantime, know that "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never going to keep me down..." - Chumbawamba, "Tubthumping".
I truly expected that my blood counts would have stabilized last Friday, but they all came in even lower than ever before, making it one of my most disappointing check-ups since beginning treatment. Last week, Keith and I took a couple of walks (he's my regulator- he modifies his much faster pace to match mine, and makes sure that I comply with Doctor's orders, and don't try walk up any hills or anything CRAZY like that), and I felt good. Felt like I was beginning to recover some of my strength and shake this awful fatigue and shortness of breath that has been plaguing me for the past couple of months - until I tried taking the stairs at the Doctor's office Friday. (Ok, maybe Keith's right. When I'm self-monitoring, I can't be trusted.) Three flights almost killed me.
So I guess I should have expected...I guess that I should have known what was coming. Hemoglobin (those lovely oxygen carrying red blood cells) down to 7.5. White blood cell count (my defense against getting sick) down to 2.7 (with absolute neutrophils - cells that protect against infection) down to 810. Platelets (the ones that keep me from bleeding out when I cut my finger chopping up veggies) down to 39. All very lackluster - the hemoglobin count very concerning. So concerning, in fact, that my oncologist decided to give me a shot of Procrit.
So I guess I should have expected...I guess that I should have known what was coming. Hemoglobin (those lovely oxygen carrying red blood cells) down to 7.5. White blood cell count (my defense against getting sick) down to 2.7 (with absolute neutrophils - cells that protect against infection) down to 810. Platelets (the ones that keep me from bleeding out when I cut my finger chopping up veggies) down to 39. All very lackluster - the hemoglobin count very concerning. So concerning, in fact, that my oncologist decided to give me a shot of Procrit.
Procrit is a red blood cell stimulating shot. It's one of the drugs that Lance Armstrong used illicitly to increase the oxygen in his body, and give him a little boost to pedal faster and longer. "Procrit (epoetin alfa) is a man-made form of a protein that helps your body produce red blood cells." Sounds good right? Well, it would be, except for this: "Procrit can increase your risk of life-threatening heart or circulation problems, including heart attack or stroke. This risk will increase the longer you use epoetin alfa. Procrit may also shorten remission time or survival time in some people with certain types of cancer." So, yeah, there is that.
Side effects of the Procrit shot - which, by the way, was a stinging little mother trucker that they administered in the fat part of my arm, on Friday - was a headache that came on every time I stood up and moved around on Sunday, and a feeling like I was coming down with the flu. Both had pretty much passed by Monday morning. I also woke up with a petechiae rash on my hand, but that is more likely attributable to my low platelets than the procrit. Petechiae is described as: "Bleeding under the skin that can occur from broken blood vessels that form tiny pinpoint red dots (called petechiae). " This is the third bout of petechiae that I have gotten since Easter. So far, it has always shown up on my left hand, and has not been severe, so it wasn't exactly panic inducing. Just another routine f'd-up side effect. Not pretty, though.
Back to the Procrit. Procrit has a "black box" warning, which is the strongest warning that the FDA requires for prescription drugs. They're not sure about the long term effects of the drug, and the Procrit website even states, "Your tumor may grow faster and you may die sooner if you choose to take PROCRIT®." Living on the fringe, eh?
As scary as that is, to be honest, no one knows the long term side effects of the TKI (tyrosine-kinase inhibitor) cancer drugs that most people with CML are currently taking. Gleevec, the first drug approved for targeted therapy in CML was just approved back in 2001. Sprycel (the drug that I'm currently on) wasn't approved until 2006. So there are less than 20 years or so of research that monitor long term effects. For all they know, everyone on a TKI could sprout wings and a tail during their 30th year of treatment. So we are - those of us that are on these drugs so close to their inception - essentially, all guinea pigs, anyway. Much better than the dismal 5 year survival rate of the past, so thanks to TKI's, at least I'll be alive to witness my transformation into a dragon at age 63.
Here's to hoping for a better week, with better test results on Friday. In the meantime, know that "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never going to keep me down..." - Chumbawamba, "Tubthumping".
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