Warning: Personal information and graphic description beyond this point, continue at your own risk.
One of the many side effects the doctor warned me about before we started this whole "let's pump lots of drugs into you" process was constipation. But he mentioned this specific side effect in a nonchalant way as if we would simply cross that bridge if and when we got to it. Well, Doc, we have arrived at the bridge.
A few days after my third treatment, the morning my bowels finally decided to move again, I experienced a bloody stool. Slightly alarmed, I began to run through the list of "you should call your doctor if..." Sure enough, this made the list. So before I left for work, I called in and talked to one of my least favorite receptionists at the cancer center. I had to describe my poop and attempt to answer all sorts of questions regarding its shape, size, and color. The receptionist assured me that she would pass the information on to the nurses and someone would call me back. Great, just what I want - a description of my poop floating around the office while the nurses draw straws to determine who has to call me back.
Since I didn't receive a call back before I went to work, I kept my phone in my pocket thinking this is a semi-serious matter and I should answer the call when I get it. Well, as the hours passed and I still had not received the promised phone call, I assumed this whole bloody stool thing must not be that important. My assumptions were confirmed when I picked up a message at 1:00 (four hours after my original call) from the nurse practitioner that literally said, "Um, Hi Lori. I got your message. If you have any questions you can call me back and if it happens again please call. Hope you are feeling better." You're kidding!? That is the advice I get? You hope I feel better?
Since I didn't have questions and didn't feel like talking to that unhelpful nurse again, I decided to just wait until my Thursday appointment with the doctor to further discuss the issue. However, it was just my luck that when I arrived that day the doctor was too busy so my appointment was with that same nurse. When she asked if I'd had any problems this time (she must have forgotten my phone call), I reminded her of the bloody stool issue. That.was.a.bad.idea. Because in an accent I couldn't understand, she began to describe to me the innermost details of how to poop. She first gave the nutrition spiel about getting enough fiber - making sure I'm eating an adequate diet of whole grains and fruit, yadda yadda yadda. Lady, I work in the health and fitness industry. You don't have to remind me that fiber is my second best friend. Her next instructions involved a ten minute toilet limit. She even so kindly demonstrated how to bring your knees to your chest to make the whole process smoother. Then as she proceeded to the hand demonstration of how the rectum works, things began to get a little awkward. As she crudely gestured, I wasn't sure whether to find this absolutely hilarious or completely disgusting. Then I remembered that I have actually dissected a cadaver, rectum and all, so I could handle her hand demos. After she finished her show and tell of the pooping process, I made my way to treatment room for my fourth chemo treatment. Four out of eight done - halfway there with a fresh insight on bowel movements.
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