I’m sitting in the Boom-Boom Room
at the Chemo Lounge. It’s quiet now, but it was noisy when we came in.
The patients are resting, lounge chairs
pushed back, feet in the air, some under blankets. Their partners
(accompanists?) are reading, munching on snacks.
The medicine poles remind me of a
ragged row of telephone poles down a country road.
In contrast to some of the patients,
I’m feeling pretty good. I had my last treatment on Dec. 30th, and
I’m here only for a small bag of Zometa for my bones – fifteen minutes and I’m
gone. They don’t look as happy as I feel. They have that look of resignation.
They look tired – tired in body and mind. I’ve been there.
Tired of having to come every so
many weeks for so many hours – knowing that the next week will be painful,
debilitating, mind numbing. But, as my wife kept reminding me: “It beats the
alternative.”
It’s been seven weeks since my last
treatment, and my strength is slowly coming back. My brain is starting to function
better. But, I’ve got to lower my brain drive – lower it from my brain to my
hands and feet.
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