Yesterday, eleven years after Donna's death from breast cancer,
I reread my journal from Jan. 5, 2001:
Northrup Cancer Center. The Chemo Lounge. In the waiting room. The fear palpable. The smell of heavy perfume over sweat. In the lounge, they can't get the needle into Donna's port. The needle bends as the nurse inserts it into her chest. A second nurse tries. Has difficulty. A third nurse holds the port against Donna's chest. They feel the skin, try to feel the opening, tell whether or not it's flipped beneath her skin. Donna is frightened, but trapped in this treatment. Finally, the needle enters the opening beneath her skin and into her port, the subclavian vein accessed. They begin the Solumedral drip (a steroid to prevent the severe flu-like reaction caused by Aridia), then they begin the Aridia. I leave for a haircut. When I return about 40 minutes later, nine chemo lounge chairs are filled with cancer patients in various stages of their disease. A few men, mostly women; the very old down to early middle age. Donna hands me a note. It says: "The African American woman who's so beautiful had a scary reaction to Solumedral. She couldn't breathe and she had horrible back pain. Just terribly scary. Two doctors and all the nurses. Just too much fragility. I'm too fragile for this." The sun pours into the south facing window. It is a salubrious January day. On the Cherry trees along the city streets blossoms have opened. Inside the chemo lounge patients are hooked to drip bags on metal stands leading to open veins in their bodies. They read, listen to music from headphones, chat with one another. Words like "Taxol," "drugs," "Your nurse is ---", "Are you all right now?" float on the air. Clear plastic tubes lead from drip bags. A woman with a scarf covering her bald head brings the nurses a plate of cookies as she arrives.They thank her and make jokes. One nurse goes from one patient to another checking their drip, another holds a syringe of something and slowly pushes as the chemical is released into someone's vein. Time passes slowly. People watch each other. Donna offers the recovering African American woman an orange slice. The woman has oxygen tubes in her nose. Looks pale and dozes. Boxes hold syringes, plastic disposable gloves, tubing, tape, brown ace bandages. These are the pioneers on the cancer frontier. When Donna has finished her treatment, we leave, until the next time. The next treatment, the next scan, the next report, the next test.
