Chemo Round 1: Did I Wake Up in Grey’s Anatomy?

A terrible allergic reaction that led to gently harassing an oncologist. Blame the Benadryl!

It was a chill Saturday of folding laundry and watching an old episode of “Love Island UK” with Andrew by my side when the City of Hope app alerted me of the results of an MRI I’d had just two days before. I quietly opened it and started reading: “a conglomerate of innumerable masses”; “largest individual mass measures 2.5 cm”; and the kicker: “OVERALL BI-RADS ASSESSMENT: 5, highly suspicious for malignancy.

Still silent as Andrew continued to comment on probably the epidemic of insane mouth guard-looking veneers on “Love Island” contestants, I opened up Safari on my phone and googled “bi-rads assessment.” There, in the AI overview, I saw that a level 5 meant that the likelihood of having cancer was 95% or higher. Another reason to hate AI. I looked up, told Andrew calmly what I’d read, and fucking lost it.

Andrew and I are obsessed with Hallmark holiday movies. We probably watch at least two a day starting around Thanksgiving. He even invented a card game where we come up with our own Hallmark movie ideas. You know what gets me sat? A workaholic marketing executive going back to her hometown only to discover, thanks to a hot (boring kind) widower named Austin who owns a Christmas tree farm, that actually she hates making $300k a year and would rather open an inn in a town with a population of 13. Call me Sat Von D, I’m so sat.

In getting the cancer news, I immediately saw myself cast as the unseen dead wife in a Hallmark movie, my ghost hanging over a still grieving, flannel-wearing Andrew who just might be ready to love again. I’m going to die of cancer and some bitch named Riley or Holly Day is going to marry my boyfriend, who is now hotter because bitches love a tragedy-stricken man. It’s not fair! Holly Day with her bland waves and Talbots ass turtleneck is going to have the life I’m supposed to have, that fucking cunt. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed and vowed to haunt them.

A few days later, after a biopsy, the news was confirmed by my physician’s assistant Hannah, who was compassionate, thorough, and advocated for me when another hospital wouldn’t schedule me for my biopsy for another two months. I took in the diagnosis, this time more calmly, while wearing a short gingham dress, Charlotte Stone heels, and big gold hoops. If I have to hear that I have cancer, I at least gotta look cute. She explained everything about my diagnosis in detail using normal words I actually understood and even drew a picture, which honestly thank you, Hannah. Explain it to me like I’m five always.

I told Hannah I want to start chemo right away. Patience has never been my strong suit but when it comes to cancer, you want it behind you as fast as humanly possible and to never see its nasty face ever again. There is no way I’m giving it a chance to spread by waiting an extra second. Holly Day and her stonewash bootcut jeans aren’t gonna be warming my side of the bed without a fight. Usurping ass bitch.

A week later, after a PET scan and two more biopsies (of a lymph node on my left armpit and some skin on my right breast), I was in the infusion chair for my first round of chemo. I did a ton to prepare ahead of time, scouring dozens of Reddit threads on r/breastcancer to see what I needed to do or buy ahead of chemo. (I’ll be sharing my chemo checklist next week.)

What I didn’t prepare for was a violent allergic reaction, then an insane Benadryl high that got me making passes at an ultra-cool oncologist.

The first round of chemo is long as hell. It’s about a seven hour event, though it’s closer to five hours the following rounds. (This may be different for others depending on their treatment needs.) The day before, day of, and day after treatment I have to take a cocktail of Pepcid, Dexamethasone (a steroid), Benadryl, and Zofran to help with side effects and the overall effectiveness of the chemo drugs.

Everything started fine with an IV drip and my immunotherapy drugs, Perjeta and Herceptin. Andrew and I watched the finale of “The Traitors” on his laptop and accidentally freaked out the nurses when I loudly gasped at a twist and/or turn on the show. After a few hours, my nurse Jay said it was time for the chemo drugs. I decided to try to nap. I put on my eye mask, laid back and wwwhHHOOOOOAAAAAA HOLY FUCK WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MEEEEEEE.

A couple minutes into the Taxotere being injected into my arm, my chest tightened and went heavy, and I felt shooting, spark-like pains running from my hips down to my legs. I couldn’t breathe. I could only take small sips of air. Through panicked tears, I pushed out the words “something isn’t right.” Andrew jumped up and alerted the nurses. This time it was real and not a reaction to Gabby Windey being incredible on “The Traitors.”

Suddenly I hear “code blue!” and I’m swarmed by nurses, who put an oxygen mask on me and quickly assessed the situation.

Then he walked in. Or rather, gilded in. Dr.Chung, the oncologist working the floor that day. You could almost see the hazy heart graphics float all around him, like 😍💞💘 𝓓𝓻. 𝓒𝓱𝓾𝓷𝓰 💔😎💖 He appeared cool as a goddamn cucumber, totally unfazed by the situation. He leaned against the nurses’ station, a look on his face that screamed oh, that’s just my motorcycle. “What do we have here?” he asked, a voice so calm, so nonchalant I was awestruck mid allergic reaction/panic attack. Dr. Timothée Nonchalantamet over here had no chalants to prescribe. Not to make the most obvious comparison but my guy was giving Dr. Derek Christopher Shepherd (RIP). Dr. Chung had a bit of this:

But also some of this:

Excuse me, I’m gonna need a round of cummotherapy.

He leaned like Marlon Brando, one of the great leaners in history, quizzing the nurses on what to give me and nurse Jay hit my IV line with Benadryl. Whewwwww that shit hit. It hit gooooooood! So good, in fact, I look over at Dr. Chung and say with a breathless twinkle, “Ummm, did I wake up in Grey’s Anatomy?”

Poor Dr. Chung got hit with a Benadryl-fueled barrage of flirting. Ok, teaching hospital! McDreamy over here, am I right? At one point, my body got really hot and Andrew helped me take off my jacket, grazing my boobs as he pulled it off my shoulders. “Andrew! In front of Dr. Chung? Wowwww!” I say, to absolutely zero reaction from the world’s most unbothered oncologist.

Once I was stable and he was probably tired of being gently harassed by an out-of-her-mind cancer patient hopped up on allergy drugs, Dr. Chung said “nice work” to the nurses and walked off, energy still oozing out of him. “You all did such a good job in front of Dr. Chung,” I told the nurses, who all agreed that he is very cool. An oncoologist, if you will.

Then I asked Andrew where the little white dog sitting next to him came from. It was my white sneakers on the floor. I was fuckin’ high, man.

My actual oncologist, Dr. Yap, who is a total genius and angel though does a lot less sexy leaning during our visits, came by to check on me. She offered me comfort and apologies for what I went through, and instructed me to take more Benadryl and steroids on the morning of my next chemo to avoid this reaction happening again. And that did work on my next couple rounds, though I still have to wear an oxygen mask to ease some slight chest tightness when they give me the Taxotere.

Allergic reactions are super scary. I’ve had severe food allergies my entire life, and have seen my fair share of ERs after accidentally eating an anaphylaxis death bomb. You simply cannot trust a P.F. Chang’s. The last time I had a bad allergic reaction I landed at the hospital I swelled so bad I looked like the late great Big Ang from the television masterpiece “Mob Wives.” So, hot but different than usual.

But an allergic reaction while going through my first round of chemotherapy provoked an extra layer of panic in that moment. I’m navigating an unknown medical treatment that already makes me anxious, for a condition I’m already scared is going to kill me, then something happens that I didn’t see coming. It was jarring. There’s so much I’m going to have to figure out as I go through this, maybe the hard way.

It was a reminder to appreciate the people taking care of me as I continue my treatment and to savor every moment I feel good. And if possible, to keep a cool, leaning oncologist and an extra shot of Benadryl close by just in case.

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