Monday, August 17, 2009

With Apologies to Clement C. Moore (and probably Dr. Seuss, as well)

Tis the day before chemo, and all of Team Wedding HQ 
Are thinking and thinking about what next they will do. 
It is not much unlike the other Eve you all know. 
I am making cookies; I am tying packages with bows.
Tomorrow I'll weep with joy; Jamie will ring a bell.
But what truly happens after this? I think only time will tell.
Tomorrow is Jamie's last scheduled dose of chemo. He still will receive a Neulasta injection (Go Neulasta! Go, go Neulasta!). He most likely will be scheduled for an additional transfusion, as well.
But so far as we know now, it will be our last date with the drip and sweet Tess and dear Wendy. To thank them for all of their fine care over the past few months, I am making cookies. I will make plenty to share with the rest of the staff, families, and any patients who are lucky enough to have an appetite. I will package quantities of two or three into cellophane baggies tied with ribbon, then put them in a larger basket or box. I'll do that, one, because I'm cute like that. Two, because chemo patients don't need to be eating food that's been touched by random germy hands reaching into a pile of loose baked goods. Three, because I'm cute like that (oh, did I say that already?), okay, three because it will keep me busy to do it. And, four, I want to package as much love as I possibly can, because words can never — and I'm pretty good with the words — never express the gratitude I have for the infusion team at South Carolina Oncology Associates (SCOA).
I am not sure what happens now in this journey — other than living, that is, and I like to think we've been doing pretty well with that. I suppose we will discuss next steps tomorrow with Dr. B before that last date with the drip. I would be lying if I said I wasn't anxious. There is a perverse security in a chemo schedule. It is a routine that even when interrupted, still resumes with a trusted cast of characters. And so coupled with that perverse security is a paradoxical affection. As much as I love everyone on the infusion level of SCOA — and I do, truly — I hope we never have to see each other in these same roles again.


  1. I hear you!
    I still think about those caregivers who were so much a part of our lives and our family when my mom was sick.
    Now my daycare kid endures the "maintenance" phase of his chemo which will last for over two years.
    He's been completely isolated for the past nine months. At his young age he knows the names of several of his healthcare family. Three of them are nurses. Two are docs and four are lab techs.
    I'm sure they have that same importance to his peeps.
    He's not even my child, and I know the faces and stories.
    These people saved his life.
    I wish we never met them.

  2. You have such a wonderful attitude. I'm such a wimp. You make me ashamed of myself. I pray for you all the time.


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