I don't know if it's the chemo or the cancer or just the clinical environment of the infusion center, but when I am within that "place" I tend to see things a little differently - let's be fair and say oddly. So somehow I have managed to twist the process of verifying my name and my chemotherapy drugs with the occasion of a sommelier presenting me with a bottle of a fine vintage of wine. Permit me to explain - if that's even possible.
Each visit to the clinic starts with me receiving a wristband with my name, date of birth (DOB) and a bar code - which I must then initial to verify that indeed it is me - before my magic identity bracelet is affixed. From then on, throughout the day, my information is checked to make sure that I am still "me" and that I am getting the right medications. This procedure is always followed to the letter by every caregiver that I encounter, and has never been missed or overlooked. And for this I am very grateful, as I wouldn't want to get the wrong medication, or anything other than exactly what the doctor ordered for that day. Nor would I want to get billed for any drugs that I actually didn't infuse, inject or otherwise ingest.
This confirmation ritual is even more diligently followed when it is time to hang some chemo. Then two people must be present - one to read off my wristband info out loud (name and D.O.B.) while the other person is there to make sure the exact same information is duplicated on the label of the infusion bag. You can only imagine that if the wrong poison was put into my system, that could be a big problem for me, and an even bigger problem for them (ie: an expensive law suit).
But here is the crazy part: then they hold the bag of chemo out in front of me like some kind of chemo sommelier, for my final approval - as if I were inspecting the label of a bottle of Saint-Émilion Premier Grand Cru Classé 2005 - Château Ausone (though technically the chemo is probably more costly than this bottle of $5,600 bottle of red wine). Daratumumab ?!?! I would scoff, I ordered the Carfilzomib - how dare you insult me with this cancer-killing swill. I guess when you spend three to four hours on a Saturday, week after week, you start to find unusual ways to make sense of the senseless or have fun with fancy pharmaceuticals. At least I do.
