Coolest Mani/Pedi Ever

I have finished three of the five days of chemo treatment. Each dose takes two hours.

The first time someone talked to me about the side effects of clofarabine, I was told there usually weren't any.

A few hours before my first dose, I receive the standard patient information sheet, which lists the same side effects I have seen on all the other chemo info sheets: chance of infection, feeling dizzy, feeling tired or week, nausea or vomiting, loose stools, skin irritation, headache, mouth irritation, anemia. I think these are all symptoms brought on by the severe drop in blood counts, not direct side effects of the medication, which is why they appear on every info sheet. Anyway, I'm feeling pretty comfortable about the whole thing, because I have tolerated the chemo treatments before relatively well, except for infections, and I'm already as vulnerable to infection as I can get.

Shortly before my first dose, the nurse comes in and asks, "So, did they tell you about the cold packs?"

No, they did not.

An until-now unmentioned side effect of this medication is Foot and Hand Disorder, in which the chemical wreaks havoc on the soles of the feet and the palms of the hand, causing massive blisters. Some studies have indicated that keeping these areas very cold while administering the chemo reduces the incidence of this problem by reducing circulation. Massive blisters on my palms and soles would definitely cramp my style, so I'm up for the cryotherapy.

On the first night of this round of chemo (Monday), the nurse wraps my feet (tops and bottoms) with chemical cold packs, and hands me two more, one for each hand. My job is to let the nurse know when they aren't cold anymore, so we can switch for new packs. I'm a little concerned, because I no longer have full feeling in my feet — a result of past chemo — and I wonder whether I will be able to tell if the packs are too cold. It turns out I can still feel cold just fine.

Anyway, the first round goes pretty well. About every half hour I decide the cold packs aren't cold enough, and two to ten minutes later the nurse comes in and replaces them. (One of the delays was because they didn't have enough cold packs on the floor.) With my feet bound in cold packs, I get to use a handheld urinal while sitting in bed. Tricky, but I've had practice.

On Tuesday, I have a different nurse. She asks how it went the first time, and I tell her it wasn't bad at all, and she starts gathering supplies: cold packs, gauze wrap to fasten packs to my feet. She gives me a couple of activated cold packs to hold while she leaves to get something else. She comes back with six small bags of ice.

"Those cold packs just are not very cold. I was talking to some of the other nurses, and I think we should try ice bags. Or, to make your hands colder, we could get a tub of ice and you could bury your hands in it."

"For two hours?"

"Yes."

"Ice bags will be fine."

So, my nurse straps an ice bag to each sole, and hands me two ice bags to hold.

"See? These are much colder."

Yes, they are.

I have a DVD of "Frasier" loaded up, so I'm ready to go. The ice bags are colder, but I get through the two hours with help from the episodes; a call from my niece Isabel; and another call from my parents, brother Karl, sister-in-law Kate, and their sons Ben and Garrett. Kate and Karl are visiting my parents from upstate New York for Thanksgiving. Jan and the boys are coming up Wednesday into Thursday for our own version of Thanksgiving.

My feet hurt as they warm up, my palms are bright pink, as I suspect my soles are. It's been a very special spa treatment, as designed by the White Witch of Narnia.

Day three of chemo is Wednesday. We have been moving the time up two hours each day, since 8:00 p.m. is not a great time to start chemo. By today, we're starting at 4:00; it ends up being 4:10 before the pump actually starts. I'm pretty locked in to being done at 6:10.

At 5:10, I text Jan that I have an hour to go. A little later, I request new ice bags, since the ones in my hands are more water than ice. "You call this cold? Bring me more ice!" I'm hoping I don't need to change the ones on my feet, since they're feeling OK, but no such luck. One of the pumps starts beeping, and my nurse spends some time getting it to shut up. I'm watching "Frasier."

At 5:40, I text that I have half an hour to go. She is picking up Jake at the Bloomington airport and then driving up here with the boys.

5:55, 15 minutes to go.

6:05, 5 minutes to go.

6:10,... no pump alarm.

6:15,... no pump alarm. I call for my nurse. "Can he bring you anything?" "No, I just have a question."

I ask my nurse how much time I have left. "About 15 more minutes... that trouble with the pump slowed things down."

Aargh. I can do 15 more.

Fifteen minutes later, my nurse comes in to do a flush. "Can I take off the ice bags now?"

No. My nurse wants to wait until the flush is done, another 5 minutes.

Lucky me. A bonus 25 minutes of the spa treatment, at no extra charge, thanks to the merciless minion of the White Witch who is pretending to be my nurse. If I had known, I could watched one more episode.

Checking in with Jan and the boys, I learn that Jake has a runny nose. This means he cannot visit — a big disappointment, since visiting was the main reason he flew out from Philadelphia for the holiday.

I need to pee. I don't see my urinal, so I assume my nurse took it away when he released me from my ice bags. I head to my bathroom on numbed soles, which feels really weird, like somebody taped blocks of wood to the bottoms of my feet. On my way back to bed, I see my bedside urinal is still there. Oh well. I get into bed and take a nap.

On the bright side: Three down, two to go.

Also, first day without the gauze mustache, because my sinuses have (mostly) stopped draining bloody mucus. I am enjoying immensely something I do not recommend to anyone: breathing through one's nose for the first time in three weeks.