Chemo class

There are three of us in a basement meeting room—two younger women and me. Neither of us knows exactly why the others are there, except that we all angered a god or spirit or demon along the way. Each of us is given a thick packet…the basics of where and when we are to report, the meds we might need to pick up beforehand (for nausea or constipation or…), and a “scared straight” slide deck that pulls no punches in describing what we are in for.

Pages and pages of what chemotherapy is and how the specific drugs they will be pumping directly into my heart will do their job and how they will affect me. And a lovely soothing four-color brochure—Understanding Chemotherapy—that the nurse is quite proud of.

It’s all too much to take in, and Bridgette the nurse says as much. There will be plenty of time for questions along the way.

Midway through, I’m overcome with emotion at everything in store for me, and her voice recedes as my brain starts pounding away at the absurdity of it all. Our tools against cancer are still so medieval.

Bridgette springs a few surprises on me. One, I’ll likely be very sensitive to cold. So no cold drinks or foods, and I’ll need to bundle up in cold weather, and I shouldn’t touch anything cold. We can have ice cream, for example, but we need to let it sit on the counter and get to room temperature—at which point I believe it just becomes “cream” without the “ice.” I will enjoy my last yummy protein and fruit smoothie tomorrow morning.

Second, and this is where I get to separate myself from my classmates, I’ll be administering subcutaneous shots to myself for five days after each cycle. These are intended to boost my white blood cell count. Why I get this privilege and my classmates don’t is not clear. (I believe it’s because my drugs are more harsh and destabilizing.)

Third, I will need to have blood drawn two days before each cycle. So by my count, that’s three visits in a week’s time: the lab, the chemo session, and the removal of my pump. 3701 Broadway, my home away from home.

The hair might start to disappear in a couple of weeks. I’ll need to decide whether or not to take charge of my hair or let it take charge of itself. The 22-year-old Aleah in front of me has amazingly thick, dark curly hair, and she has already decided that she’s going to take it all off. “My mom had cancer, and I watched her hair fall out, and it was miserable.”

At some point, there are really no more questions to ask, and Bridgette shuffles us along. We say “good luck” to each other. Let us begin.