Dear Chemo 13 Gang Members:
The past 48 hours have been terrible. I was/am very scared. I haven’t been able to walk. My thighs are not responding as they should. It’s most likely a drug called Cytarabine.
I think I was joking a while ago that before they give you this drug you have to go through a field sobriety test of sorts to make sure all your neurological synapses work right. You have to touch your nose with your eyes closed, do some alternate hand slapping on your thighs, and swipe the instep of your leg along the calf of your other leg – all my friends from URI have had similar experiences with the South Kingstown Police Department.
When I got home Saturday I lost motor control of my thighs and I fell so hard in my little home office that I’m pretty sure I bounced off the floor. Kate – the saintly Mrs. Potter – scraped me up and carted me off to bed. My speech was slurred and I couldn’t pronounce “difficult” had you put a gun to my head.
The episodes continued yesterday and eventually I resorted to scooting around on the floor; half crab walking and half-baby scooting. It was all quite undignified. Last night I couldn’t get my legs to work again and spent a few minutes punching my bed out of a level of frustration I am ill equipped to describe.
I feel much better this morning, but I am still scared as hell. If this were a permanent thing, with my legs turning on and off without notice, I don’t know what I’d do. I’m supposed to get my blood numbers run later at the docs office, but I think we’re gonna have a “Come to Jesus” meeting about this instead.
This happened once before, but the episodes were kind of masked because I was admitted to the hospital for blood problems.
I guess that’s it for now.
Yikes,
Bill
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