Waiting in the Chemo Room
My mother has cancer.
That is the defining fact of my life right now. Although it doesn't have a direct impact on me every second now, it does affect the structure of my week (must have Wednesdays free), my planing of the future (like vacations, and my emotional health.
I take her to her chemo. She is on her second 6-month cycle now. The first did not change her condition, only kept it stable. The chemo drug she is taking now is much stronger and is affecting her symptoms, although she has lost her hair. She does eat pretty well, though.
Sitting in the chemo room with the other patients is part of my life. I spend at least three hours there; during some of her treatment, which runs about six hours (lab, premeds, actual chemo infusion) I go get some lunch, do her errands, do my errands. All the patients are on different protocols, so we do not see all of them every week; whether we do or not is a bit random.
However, they are a community in that room (the second of two at this doctor's office). Five women can occupy that room, with a family member to accompany them. It is a little crowded. There is a TV that mostly gets ignored. My mom has made friends. One woman, my age, has adopted my mother as her second mom because her own is 3,000 miles away in California.
The overwhelming truth in that room is suffering. The women wear hats to cover their new baldness; they wear extra clothes to keep warm. They eat whatever they feel like because with cancer, diet for other conditions is not all that important. You might as well eat fat and salt and sugar if that is what you can keep down. Some women talk a great deal, some are very quiet. Some are upper middle class; my mother is on Social Security and never has had much money. All have access ports on their chests and some have an extra one in their abdomens.
They all "look bad," as my mom would say.
There is fragile hope in that room. Every bit of good news feeds the hope; sometimes there is no good news. All are fighters, though. They must be, because they are taking chemo. My mother did not want to, back in the spring when the tumor started to be an unalterable fact. She didn't want to take the second round; she still doesn't, of course. Who would. But my only argument was that she wouldn't want to have to say, "I wish I had done something." I believe she would be gone now, and selfishly, I am not ready for that.
That is the defining fact of my life right now. Although it doesn't have a direct impact on me every second now, it does affect the structure of my week (must have Wednesdays free), my planing of the future (like vacations, and my emotional health.
I take her to her chemo. She is on her second 6-month cycle now. The first did not change her condition, only kept it stable. The chemo drug she is taking now is much stronger and is affecting her symptoms, although she has lost her hair. She does eat pretty well, though.
Sitting in the chemo room with the other patients is part of my life. I spend at least three hours there; during some of her treatment, which runs about six hours (lab, premeds, actual chemo infusion) I go get some lunch, do her errands, do my errands. All the patients are on different protocols, so we do not see all of them every week; whether we do or not is a bit random.
However, they are a community in that room (the second of two at this doctor's office). Five women can occupy that room, with a family member to accompany them. It is a little crowded. There is a TV that mostly gets ignored. My mom has made friends. One woman, my age, has adopted my mother as her second mom because her own is 3,000 miles away in California.
The overwhelming truth in that room is suffering. The women wear hats to cover their new baldness; they wear extra clothes to keep warm. They eat whatever they feel like because with cancer, diet for other conditions is not all that important. You might as well eat fat and salt and sugar if that is what you can keep down. Some women talk a great deal, some are very quiet. Some are upper middle class; my mother is on Social Security and never has had much money. All have access ports on their chests and some have an extra one in their abdomens.
They all "look bad," as my mom would say.
There is fragile hope in that room. Every bit of good news feeds the hope; sometimes there is no good news. All are fighters, though. They must be, because they are taking chemo. My mother did not want to, back in the spring when the tumor started to be an unalterable fact. She didn't want to take the second round; she still doesn't, of course. Who would. But my only argument was that she wouldn't want to have to say, "I wish I had done something." I believe she would be gone now, and selfishly, I am not ready for that.
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