When you have cancer and are prescribed chemotherapy, the first thing you do is panic. Your oncologist hands you a bunch of paper listing all the side effects of the poisons they plan to put into your body, and you panic. You panic about losing your hair, you panic about the nausea, you panic about the mention of sudden death, you panic about the impossibly stupid costs, etc. You panic about just about everything.
And then you actually start chemo, and everything you panicked about seems...routine. Mundane. Even banal. You show up at your appointed time and the nurse weighs you and takes you to a room filled with other cancer patients. You get a comfy chair, they stick the needle in your mediport, and the drugs start dripping through the tube. Then you sit and do whatever you want for however long it takes, which for me is about three or four hours each time.
My husband comes with me, and we usually bring books, computers, magazines, and whatever to occupy the time. When we first arrived for our initial appointment, we expected a room filled with dread, fear, and despair. Maybe a little anger. All of us have a disease that requires more than a pound of flesh for even the hope of a cure, after all. Who wouldn't be upset, angry, or depressed about that?
Reality is a different story.
I've sat next to people who were quiet or sleeping during their treatments, but that's been the exception. Usually we are greeted with smiles and cheers. It's like I've joined a club of some sort, and Larry gets to come along, too. One visit Larry spent the entire three hours talking to two other gentlemen about the Dallas Cowboys of the 1970s, the Union Pacific Railroad, and East Texas, while I crocheted and listened.
There's been a lot more laughter than I expected. One person asks for a margarita to be added to their IV each time I'm there, with the others chiming in with their alcoholic beverage of choice. We joke about our hair, and gripe about the weather. When and if we do discuss our cancers, it is always in a upbeat tone, no matter what. Even the people who end up at the hospital for a transfusion seem happy. I've decided that having a good attitude is essential to fighting cancer. Keeping your spirits up, and sharing that cheer with your fellow cancer patients, can make all the difference.
This week, when I was visiting for a blood check, a woman(who has been dealing with cancer for fifteen years) got up from her chair to visit the restroom. Since she was attached to the IV, she started to pull the IV pole with her as she crossed the floor. When this tiny, frail woman got to the middle of the room, she stopped.
"Look!" she said, smiling "I'm a pole dancer!"
And she did a very slow turn around her IV pole. The rest of us applauded and laughed as she took a short bow.
Go visit Mamakat's Pretty Much World Famously Awesome Workshop and check out the other writers! The prompt I chose was 2. Something that made you smile this week.
God, are you okay?
ReplyDeleteThanks for this great lesson in perspective, so well-written,
I'm hanging in there! Mostly just tired right now. Thank you for reading---I love it when you visit!
DeleteThis post is something I'll share with the patients I see as a stylist/cancer support specialist. Your words echo the feelings so many share. One woman broke down in her Oncologist's office upon hearing the diagnosis and the probability of complete hair loss after courses of Taxol.. His reaction? "Do you want to get well or keep your hair?"
ReplyDeleteShe made it through the treatment gauntlet, is in complete remission and... her hair returned with a vengenance.
Thank you for this....I applaud you!
My chemo (after we got the right anti-nausea meds) was always a bit weird. I was usually the youngest person in the room (age 29/30 when I had chemo). I'd get the initial line into the port then would walk to the room to sit in the adult chairs. My 1st chemo would be over a couple of hours, then I would get another one to take home on a pump. That was fun. I'm guessing they don't do the home pumps anymore. I eventually decided that God only gave people with good looking scalps cancer so that we could show them off. I stopped wearing the wig and eventually stopped wearing the hats and scarfs. I liked the freedom of no hair. I even found a shirt that said "I'm too sexy for my hair" and wore it proudly.
ReplyDeleteI get my monthly injections in the infusion center. I, too, expected gloom and despair in the room, but there is usually laughter and chatter between the patients, their visitors, and the nursing staff. It IS a club. Not one you want to join, but once you're in, it's one where you are accepted unequivocally.
ReplyDeleteLOVE LOVE LOVE the pole dancer story!
You are such an inspiration!!!! Thank you for your ever always up-beat positive attitude and posts. What a wonderful way to start my day! You just gave a great gift away. Keep smiling... everything is on your side! I love the little lady that said she was pole dancing. I'd like to be a fly on the wall.
ReplyDeleteGreat post! I was always amazed by the patients and families while my nephew was in and out of the hospital. Attitude changes so many things, no matter what life throws at you!
ReplyDelete"having a good attitude is essential to fighting cancer," You really have that under lock and key. Stay strong. It sounds as if you have an inspiring group of folks at your club meetings.
ReplyDelete"having a good attitude is essential to fighting cancer," You really have that under lock and key. Stay strong. It sounds as if you have an inspiring group of folks at your club meetings.
ReplyDeleteSO great you've got a built in support group! The 'pole dancer' story made me laugh and applaud from down here on the other side of the world - maybe your pole dancing friend might like to hear that??? It reminds me of an incident when a friend had had a mastectomy. She walked a short distance from the hospital to meet me & another friend at a cafe with her catheter bag hidden in a shoulder bag which she then put under our outside table while we ate. It almost seemed normal until a small dog came snuffling along the sidewalk - and found the contents of her shoulder bag VERY interesting!!! We ALL laughed hysterically - it was just as well we noticed the dog BEFORE it managed to remove anything from the bag! Stay well, my friend. Wishing you healing and light from downunder - actually, we've got enough light to sink a battleship down here in a summer heatwave :D
ReplyDeleteMy heart breaks for anyone facing cancer, but I love this perspective. Congratulations on having such a wonderful attitude. Thoughts and prayers for you.
ReplyDeleteJen - Pierced Wonderings
My friend has lost her hair multiple times to chemo. Each time it grows back different. Curly. Bone straight. Bright white. And each time she saw it as a challenge to redefine her look.
ReplyDeleteShe's currently curly and dark... with a streak of blue... and rocking the overalls. :)
That is awesome!!! Made me smile just imagining her look!
DeleteWow, I've never considered this upbeat perspective, but I LIKE IT! That being said, I cannot believe you have to go through this. How many treatments have you had now and how long must it go on? I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
ReplyDeleteI am on treatment four now. 12 more to go, then radiation. As has bee n said, cancer is a marathon!
DeleteWhat a great post! I don't know what I would do if I was ever diagnosed with cancer but it seems that being around positive patients really help get through it!
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