Okay, so it’s infusion day—yay. If you’ve been through this before, you know the drill. If not, well, buckle up. It’s one of those days where you feel like you’re gearing up for a marathon you never signed up for. It all starts with the pre-meds, which you take about an hour before your appointment. You know, the magical cocktail of antihistamines, steroids, and probably a dash of “please don’t freak out” meds to keep you from feeling like you’re about to fall apart. They say it helps minimize the side effects, but honestly, I just think they don’t want us to bolt out of there screaming halfway through the infusion.
Once you arrive at the infusion center, it’s like walking into a weird, parallel universe where everyone’s battling something different, but no one really talks about it. They sit us in these not-so-comfy chairs—seriously, could they not spring for recliners? You sit down, and the IV needle goes in, and at that moment, all you can think is: Here we go again. And then you look around and start playing this little game in your head: What are they here for? Is she here for chemo, or is she getting some fancy vitamin drip? Is that guy getting iron or something more intense? It’s the only thing that keeps you entertained in a room full of strangers hooked up to bags of fluids.
After a few rounds of this, you start to recognize faces. You’re there on the same days, at the same times, and it’s like some messed-up support group. Except instead of talking about our feelings, we’re sharing snacks and eye rolls when the nurse brings over the next bag of meds. You start to bond with these people, though. It’s strange, but kind of comforting. You don’t even have to say much—just a knowing look or a small chat about how tired you are—and suddenly, you realize they get it. You’re all in the same boat, and there’s something really special about not having to explain yourself for once.
The infusion itself is painfully slow. I mean, for me, it takes six to seven hours. That’s a full day of sitting in that chair while the meds drip into my veins. And let’s be real, no amount of Netflix or podcasts makes it any faster. The nurses are the real MVPs, though. They know exactly when you’re about to crash, and they’re always ready with a pillow, a blanket, or a kind word. I swear, they have this sixth sense for knowing when things are about to go sideways.
Once it’s done, you’re not exactly in the clear yet. Oh no, you’ve got another hour or so of just sitting there to make sure you don’t spontaneously combust (or, you know, have an allergic reaction). It’s like a waiting period, but instead of waiting to see if you passed an exam, you’re waiting to see if your body decides to rebel against you. And honestly, even though you’ve done this a million times, that little seed of anxiety never really goes away. It just hangs out in the back of your mind, whispering all the worst-case scenarios.
The next day is when the real fun begins. For me, it’s like someone took a hot poker and jammed it straight into my spine. Spinal pain—my least favorite part of this whole ordeal. I’d lie there, popping ibuprofen and Tylenol like candy, waiting for the worst of it to pass. Day five post-infusion is usually when I start to feel like a somewhat functional human again. But man, that waiting period feels like forever, doesn’t it? It’s like you’re stuck in this weird limbo where you’re not quite sick anymore but definitely not “normal” either.
And then, the six-month countdown begins. You sit around waiting for the next MRI, hoping—praying—that the drugs did their job, and no new lesions decided to pop up. It’s like holding your breath for months at a time, waiting for the news that could go either way. I still remember my doctor telling me, “There’s no guarantee it’ll work, but it might.” Like, thanks for the confidence boost, doc. But hey, here we are. We get through it, and somehow, even on the hard days, we find little moments to laugh, to bond, and to remind ourselves that we’re tougher than we give ourselves credit for.
We’re doing this, one drip at a time. You can do this.
