Away from Normal TIme

Things were good, yes they were. For about two years the cancer receded into the mist. We knew it was there but it progressively went away. It was amazing. After a couple of years of therapy, illness, difficulty things began to turn around. The tumors responded to treatment and grew smaller. Then one happy day following a scan, the wizard said that he could not see the cancer.

So we began to live again, slowly at first then more and more. I bought her a dog, a Great Dane which she wanted for years. We began to go out for hikes, dinners at restaurants became easier and we enjoyed life. Our daughters responded by becoming easier to live with. I laughed again and played around with the girls. I even coached my youngest daughter's softball team. It was a good time. My youngest said she wanted to do some things for vacation so we did. We went on a long hike where she nearly stepped on an eastern diamondback rattle snake. We went to Split Rock and swam in the cold spring water. We slept out under the stars one night. We went to a water park. We went to Six Flags in NJ and rode roller coasters and ate ice cream. It was a good time in our lives.

As we were riding roller coasters and eating ice cream my wife sat down. It was a hot day and the pavement just made it hotter. She looked tired but our kid schedule was fairly relentless. After all, it was designed and executed by a 10 year old.

"You all right?" I asked her.

"No, my back hurts."

"You're probably just sore from the rides and the walking." I said that to her with a bit of hope and a great deal of denial in y voice.

"No, I don't think so", she laughed and leaned forward to stretch her back.

I shrugged it off and went with our teenage daughter to get in line for the next roller coaster. While the line snaked around I would steal glances back at her. She was in pain but she kept up the conversation with our 10 year old and sent her to get sodas and laughed and listened. All the time I could see that she was in pain.

The next week, the doctor told us the tumor was growing and she would need to reenter chemo. It was tough, no doubt about it but there we were. This time we knew what to expect. We began preparing.

She bought a wig, it looks nice. It is a bit longer than her hair but not noticeably. We got out the blanket she wrapped up in while she sat with the cold poison dripping into her veins. She found the bag she carried all her things in. We packed it and set it in the closet.

First chemo was on a Friday. We went early in the day and checked in at the patient desk. We sat in the lobby with all the others and waited. I have always hated waiting in the lobby. There are all manner of people waiting there. Old and young, rich and poor, sane and not so much. All wait their turn to be called, called back to the exam rooms, called back to treatment rooms, waiting and waiting for our name to be called. Some of the people look like they are checking out, others look like they have already but others seem to be healthy, hale and hardy.

When her name is called we pick up the bag and go in. Her regular doctor is not there and the one seeing her has been a bit nasty. I sit in the exam room almost hoping he will be rude and give me a reason to beat him but this time he is polite, almost cheerful.

My wife enters the treatment room and sits across from a fellow who is young, in his thirties, and ashen gray. His wife talks constantly. He drifts in and out of sleep.

The nurses there run the show. They are everywhere and provide the most amazing care. I just marvel at them as they insert needles, hang bags, commiserate with the patients and rejoice with them. Almost everyone is a friend and they never seem to be down. I am stunned by their ability to separate themselves from what they are doing.

My wife's drug is ixempra. She has researched it and knows it's symptoms, side effects, half life, effective toxicity in and out. She leans back in the chair, all hooked up. I make certain she is comfortable, has water and her book. The blanket is folded next to her.

"Want some lunch?" I venture.

"Maybe a small sandwich, some cheese and a soda. Share some chips?"

"How about something sweet?"

"Maybe later."

The hospital is busy and I get my hall pass and head toward the cafeteria. The deli has changed since we were regulars but I adapt. I pick up the lunch and get her some ice cream as a treat and head back. It is so surreal. I get back to the lobby and it is empty. I remember that these things take as long as four hours for a treatment.

We eat and chat as she sits there all hooked up.

"You know I will probably lose my hair soon. The literature says it takes about three weeks."

I eat and nod.

After the meal I put the blanket around her. The stuff flowing in makes her cold. Sometimes she shivers as she sits there.

"Can you get me another blanket?"

"Of course."

So I tuck her in under her two blankets. She drifts off to sleep. I move her book and water bottle to the table at her free hand and leave the room to go outside. I have some calls to make. So I walk out the door into the hot sunshine, pull out my cellphone and start to cry.