Chemo, Day #1, Cycle #1.

Chemo, Day #1, Cycle #1
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
12:30 PM
University of Michigan Cancer Center, Ann Arbor, MI. 

Today was wild. Not sure I can find a more effective way to describe it.

 I woke up, tried to turn myself into the same weird, antisocial, pretending-to-be-focused-to-compensate-for-being-terrified zombie that I tried to before I went in for surgery, and went along for the ride. It was an incredibly unique experience.

When focused on specifically what is happening to yourself, it's difficult to get a handle on the gravity of the situation. I tried to stay locked in to my little world. The infusion atrium, the noises and smells, the room I can carry my IV to for coffee and snacks, my chair, my tv and my computer playing the newest episode of Homeland, which I didn't hear a single word of. I spent time Thinking of the kind of day my Dad is having--his second loved one, starting this journey, and him knowing the worst details of how the last one ended. The meds, waiting to be infused, looking more like Kool-Aid than a toxic killing machine of both good and bad cells.

But while semi-enjoying life in my semi-comfortable, insulated bubble, I took a look over my left shoulder, and part of me wishes I hadn't.

The man in the chair to my left was at least 70, had a large portion of his jaw missing, and a handful of visible lesions all over his body. I took my headphones off to listen to him speak to the doctor. Long story short, this was less about treating his ailments, than preserving life.

I look further past him to the left. There's a man no younger than 80 on his chair, fully reclined, sleeping while his wife was gently rubbing his arm. I don't know any details of his diagnosis, but common sense, and the look on his wife's face told me it looked as if his time here was short as well.

Fuck.

Headphones back on. Go back to homeland. Maybe change it to something more upbeat. Just don't look to the right.

Looked to the right at a 40-45 year old woman, with her teenage daughter with her. The woman had a double mastectomy. She was incredibly thin. Her lips were very chapped and it looked like a handful of fingernails had fallen off. Her kid typed away on her cell phone, but I watched as the woman kept shifting positions in the recliner, trying to find a pain-free position.

She looked a ton like I remember my mom when I was 18. A forced, faint smile to her daughter. She must've told a corny joke, because the girl smirked and rolled her eyes. I suppose that's when it hit me; that in my insulated little world, I could tell myself I didn't really belong here. This is a blip, and it may very well turn out to be that for me, but that I needed to stop pretending.

I grabbed my portable IV and walked to the bathroom labeled "For Chemo Patient's Only." Had a long look in the mirror, couple deep breaths, a brief moment of "why me," a couple tears, a "stop crying, you punk," one last deep breath, and back out we go.

Decided to take a long walk around.

This room is full of dying people. People in pain. People trying just to extend their life. Loved ones with them. Optimism. Flowers.

My treatment began, it went relatively smoothly, and I felt/feel like shit. I've been injected with a toxic time bomb, and now I'm just along for the ride. That's an unsettling feeling. But I couldn't really focus on that while in that infusion atrium.

 I spent the rest of the time struggling with what I had learned today in Ann Arbor.

My treatment had begun, and this wasn't some mistake. The people around me in there may be at different stages, different cancers, different treatments, different ages…but I'm not special.

I belong there too.

That's enough for day one. Probably reads as a bit overly dramatic. But I'll never forget today.

I needed today, for obvious health reasons. I think I needed it for something else as well. I think, now, I'm ready to go. Time will tell.