Journal of a Living Lady #184

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Getting regularly scheduled chemotherapy in a group setting has allowed me to further my education. In one large room with a dozen patients or so,  I have earned several associate degrees by assimilation: pharmacology, psychology, sociology, and theology. No diplomas are forth-coming, but I have been duly educated.

 

Once a month I sit in a recliner in the chemo room. An intravenous drip trickles into the surgically inserted port in my chest. The clear fluid, I sardonically refer to as my 14K liquid gold fix, fills in  bone cavities where the cancer is eroding. It must be effective. Without it, I transform into a person that I don't wish to become permanently.

 

Buddy says I never complain. True, I don't usually. And I try not to bore people with lengthy details when they ask how I am feeling. Yet, when my bones groan, I know I am not the real me. I don't laugh as hard, pray as often, or have an abundance of patience. I don't like that altered me. Pain deters me from my goal of being an amiable person 24/7.

 

While in the hustle of getting ready for Charlie's wedding last summer, I skipped all cancer treatment. It was a psychological maneuver on my part. Just this once I wanted to pretend. The fantasy was to be perfectly normal with no illness to limit me or to dim the memories of that wonderful event. For a few days my boat floated on De Nile. I was the adult poster child of health. It was fun, though short-lived.

 

Back home, after the wedding, I pleaded with the receptionist for a quick appointment.  I needed my  fix. Though not a pain medication, the action of Aredia diminishes the bone pain to a tolerable level for about three weeks. Though the relief is temporary, I am grateful for it.

 

On the same day I receive Aredia, the oncology nurse gives me another medicine. This humongous shot, consisting of thick gel substance, attacks metastatic cancer in a different way. Looking at the size of that syringe, my guess is that it was borrowed from a veterinarian's office, one which specializes in mighty muscular mules. The needle is absurdly long. Surely the receiving half of my already pompous posterior must significantly bulge afterwards. Not wishing to be a future model for an Al Capp character or the object of stares, I don't wear spandex on treatment days...or any day for that matter.

 

But I am only one of many. The patients in our chemotherapy room are a study in contrast: young, old, male, female, hair, no hair, black, white. The newly diagnosed are generally inquisitive and alert. Most are scared, yet brave and accepting.

 

We veterans offer reassurances to the newbies. Sometimes the regulars chat like old friends in a coffee shop. Often we sleep. When someone is missing, our suspicions are aroused. Do we dare ask the nurse the question that is uppermost in our mind? Most times not. If so, the answer is whispered, yet everybody listens. Gasps and a palpitable, collective moan turns into a hallowed hush.

 

The silence is broken by annoying beeps of disinterested machines. Life continues for the rest of us...for a while.

 

Drats! I have had enough of this chicken soup.  Bring on the chocolate.

 

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nancyk@alltel.net--- For Nov. 7, 2002 - Sentinel Newspapers