I was a blondish plucked chicken underneath my burgundy scarf. I had on new red loafers. I even had on plum lipstick. My sparse eyebrows were carefully filled in. I refused to give up on myself. If I did that, I knew instinctively it wouldn’t be good. Even with no hair, and dealing with breast cancer at age 64 which had come out of nowhere, I was still vain. I was still me.
I waited on the vinyl chair, unopened magazines on my lap. I had my tote bag with me that I always brought with snacks and my Kindle which I probably wouldn’t open. My iPhone had my playlist with favorites, meant to cheer me on. These familiar songs gave me comfort. I looked at the other women waiting like me. I never wanted to be a part of this curious flock, draped in cottons, silks, perky knits. They were exotic birds in festooned plumage. We gave each other wary, knowing looks. For certain, this was a sorority I didn’t want to be a part of.
They quietly chirped in different languages to their mothers, or partners or friends who came with them. One young woman had her bald head hennaed with a design. She was too young to be here, to go through this. An older woman sat next to her, probably her mom. I felt sorry for her too. I sent my husband away to get coffee and come back later when I would be settled. The space where I’d get my treatment was small. I knew that from my previous sessions and I didn’t want him to feel claustrophobic. Yeah, I still worried about him too. Through all of this, he was my rock. He brought me Cheerios at midnight when that was all I could tolerate. He took me to every appointment. Other couples would have cracked; their fault lines showing. We became stronger.
My name was called. The nurse checked my wristband. I’m taken to a room to first flush out my port. The port which was surgically placed on my chest was a lifesaver because it avoided the poking and pain which came from the insertion of the infusion needles and numerous blood draws. Chemotherapy was no picnic for sure, but I was willing to fight my cancer with everything I had. I wanted to live. From this room, I’m ushered in to the room I will be in for my infusion. The chemo nurses were a special breed I’ve concluded. They were kind and caring and provided the knowledge and expertise that was required for chemo infusions.
Again, my ID band was checked. I chuckled to myself. Would anyone sign up to do this unless they absolutely had to? However, the crucial part was getting the correct chemo cocktail which was different for each person and meant my id band would be checked several more times. The nurse brought me a warm blanket. I got situated on the chair which was comfortable. I could lift my knees and legs. I settled in. The first part of the infusion was getting the anti- nausea drugs. This was important because they really don’t want you vomiting all night after getting your infusion. There were other medications you took at home to avoid complications, some of which I had anyways, despite following instructions meticulously. When the anti-nausea bags were emptied, the fun began. The drug I was getting for four of my eight chemo sessions was affectionately called “The Red Death” because it made your pee run red. It was nasty stuff.
The red poison dripped relentless. When I had to go to the bathroom it was a production, dragging the IV with me. My husband checked in and asked what I felt like for lunch. He went out to Divisadero St. to find me a tuna sandwich on a French roll. It sounded good but whether I could eat it at all was doubtful.
Somehow this room where I received these life-saving treatments felt like a sanctuary to me, almost a holy space. There were three other women at other stations. Though we were strangers, we saw each other and understood what we were going through. Sometimes we chatted but we didn’t need to. Though we were hooked up to our own lines and bags, we were bound together by invisible cords of unspoken camaraderie. Arrayed in our colorful headgear, we were all hopeful birds. Sometimes we huddled under the warm blankets tended to by our nurses, our partners, our family, our friends whom we shlepped along with us. We hovered bravely not knowing what tonight or tomorrow or six months might bring as we dealt with the aftereffects of the chemo. In every corner of this sacred room, there were fervent wishes to return to normalcy and be free of the cancers, and silent prayers that we would soar again.
INSTANT NOODLES 