Three chemo sessions out of twelve are finished. One quarter of the chemical concoctions have been drunk drip by drip into Mike’s blood stream. Listening to his doctor things are right on target with blood counts, organ functions, and overall expectations. With Mike the side effects seem pretty manageable and he has a great team of professionals, including his family, making sure he is getting the proper rest and diet that he needs.
I’m not sure why I’m at Mike’s side for these sessions, other than I want to be. I can pretend to be important as a caregiver but it would be stretching the truth to make myself seem more important than I am. I am there because it is good, and that is enough.
Cancer wards are worth hanging out in if you want to see the best part of people. I’m consistently amazed that I’ve found no pity in the eyes that greet me in the waiting room and in the elevator. These people are fighting for their lives and fighting hard.
I watched one man gingerly make his way to the nurses’ station where he was greeted by his first name and with a big smile. As he walked over near me he took the doughnut shaped pillow he was holding and positioned it carefully in the chair. He lowered himself ever so lightly onto the cushion with a few grimaces from his backside pain. As soon as he was comfortable his smile returned as did his conversation with those around him. It’s kind of hard to hide what kind of cancer you are fighting when you walk around with your doughnut pillow.
Another man walked into the room from having just completed his blood work and recognized a friend in the room. He communicated his greeting with his facial expressions and lots of hand gestures before he opened his mouth. When he did so his voice was extremely deep and raspy. “Esophageal cancer,” he explained in a voice so low that James Earl Jones would be considered a tenor in comparison. The men’s two wives picked up the conversation at that point, which was probably a pretty normal occurrence anyways.
I watched Mike go through his own discomfort yesterday. As he was getting one of the anti-nausea medications injected into his port his face started twitching and he raised himself up out of the chair, obviously feeling something very uncomfortable. The nurse responded immediately and slowed down the injection which helped the reaction subside. She told us later that the nurses call that reaction to the drug “cactus butt.” She also added that most people only feel it in their derriere and that it was strange that Mike felt it in his cranium.
“It isn’t strange at all”, I announced. “Mike, pull your head out! Quit being such a butthead!”
We all laughed, which I think is what I’m good for. Laughter is supposed to be the best medicine and maybe it cushions the chemicals being injected into his port.
One quarter of the chemo game is in the books.
*ow* prickly chemo fingers *ow* hurts *ow* to type *ow* but I just *ow* can't seem to *ow* stop"
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