August 30, 2006
This day brings the third set of injections of seven in the seventh round of Chemotherapy. Monday’s blood count was normal, and the oncologist was beaming; in the past we had concluded that he was a very serious sort because he didn’t smile much, but this time he radiated delight. “You are in full remission!” was the declaration, and a celebratory mood filled the room. Shortly thereafter I was once more in the blue chair in the Chemo room awaiting the injections, since the plan is to keep the blood normal through a regular infusion of the chemical every eight weeks. Every time, the body reacts differently, and this time it has brought abdominal cramps of the type where one doubles over, breathes deeply and begins to recite the 23rd Psalm. There are also hot flashes and bone aches – those two reactions I am familiar with but the stomach cramps are a new thing.
While waiting for my treatment, a man followed a nurse into the Chemotherapy room and took a chair nearby. He had the whey colored complexion that is typical of cancer and as he sat down he said sadly, “I just retired in July, and we had big plans, big plans. . . and I’m tellin’ you, they sure didn’t include sitting here.” The nurse said soothingly, “I’m sure they didn’t,” as she laid his arm on the armrest and rubbed the alcohol over the top of the hand. “Stick,” she said, and inserted the IV, taping it in place and turning on the liquid that would descend from the bottles hanging above. The man continued, “We was gonna travel first, thought we’d get a trailer, you know, and go down to the Ozarks for a while.” The nurse just sat there, rubbing his arm, and listening. “Now,” he said, “We don’t know where the money’s gonna come from. . . this all costs so much, we don’t know where the money’s gonna come from.” He put his head back and shut his eyes, and the nurse got up and said very quietly, “Let us know if you need anything, all right?” He didn’t reply.