The drama of Samarium Day was in keeping with that of the inaugural the day before. This was the huge step we've been gearing for, obsessing over, researching diligently, daily, for the past several months. This was to be the big kahuna, the linchpin of this clinical trial!
To add to the drama, there was some trouble getting my IV chest catheter to work properly, which resulted in one of the stem cell doctors storming in to assert himself with the IV technician. After all, this ultra-powerful stuff had to be administered just right. (And, we understand it's likely worth several hundred thousand dollars; since it's a trial, though, it was provided free of charge.)Hank was more nervous than I was!
Later, Dr. Nunez, the head of nuclear medicine, wheeled in a heavy cart containing the syringe, housed in a large shielded container. The infusion took about 30 minutes, during which I did my favorite visualizations, such as healing light swishing the bad stuff away.
But my favorite visualization involves the Love Marines. They drop from a helicopter and charge in, yelling "Go, go, go!" Then instead of using typical weapons, they reach into their shirt pockets and pull out glowing pink love grenades, which they hurl (with wonderful accuracy, naturally) toward my metastases.
Going green. Nausea is turning out to be a samarium side effect, but I owe a lot to the miracle known as the Zofran Reditab. This is an antinausea medicine that dissolves on your tongue and works within minutes: "Ahhhh...!"
Now that the green feeling is gone, the only remaining side effect is a powerful magnetic force that draws me to my bed each afternoon for an hour or two of tuning out.