No Last Dance for Me

Update for Chemo 6.

Immediately after our appointment, the doctor sent me to the chemo room—the one where all the patients go, lounging in recliners having a merry old time hooked up to IV bags delivering the toxic juices.

I notice two newer women I’d seen at my fifth session; now both are bald. One is wearing a cute short blond wig. She’s visibly lost weight. The other is sporting a brightly colored, flowered bandana around her head. That’s a sure sign her blond hair of three weeks ago is gone. She still overfills the chair.

A third patient, an elderly lady with a slight Southern accent, is there again with her hand-holding husband. She’s having a hard time breathing and is wheeled to the main hospital for some tests. I never find out if she’s okay.

The doctor told me the administering nurses in the chemo room would do a dance for me as it’s my last scheduled treatment.

The 4-1/2 hour session was without fanfare, no dancing, no applause, no confetti tumbling down, no cake or presents, or bouquet of flowers. When I asked about the dance, the nurses laughed; like that ain’t gonna happen. One said, let the doctor do the dancing. I didn’t waltz out of there. Instead I was left with a gnawing worry.

It may very well have been the last treatment, but blood tests, CAT-scans and regular doctor visits are still on the agenda. And then of course healing and hair returning, and getting this port surgically removed. That will no doubt brighten the “Scarlet Letter A” already stitched in my skin.

But now creeps in a new situation: the fear of the beast returning. Is there a single cancer cell in Darwinian fashion immune to the killing toxins, lurking in some corner of a DNA molecule going undetected, laughing evil-ly at the attempts of modern medical science, waiting, just waiting to do its weird dividing dance and spread?

I am the survival of the fittest, a lucky one who caught early a curable cancer. Or have I? It is a fear that I suspect most cancer survivors live with. You just have to move on, go on, and keep in tune with the bodily warning signs that signaled something was off in the first place.

I feel a sort of kinship with other cancer patients and survivors. Like Corvette owners who join clubs. Or cat fanciers (sometimes you can see the fur meshed on their clothing). Or motorcycle riders (they nod or raise an arm to passing bikers on the road). Once the hair grows back, and the funky wigs, scarves, and caps are put away, how will we recognize one another, unless I join some cancer society group? No thanks. I haven’t so far. I had enough friend and family support to say I was lucky again not to need that.

But I’ve gotten spoiled by a husband who vacuums for me, a daughter who washes the kitchen floor every other week. And another daughter who shovels the drive and walkways.

I’ve gained strength already. I’m back to doing all the cooking and laundry duties, the grocery shopping, and general housework, easing back to routines. And in a couple of weeks as this last treatment fades from memory, and the residual nausea, nerve-ending tingling, insomnia and other side effects diminish, I’ll be back to full schedule at work.

Yes, I’ll be ready to join society without the nagging of the disease interfering with my life. The doctor said, in three weeks I’ll be able to eat from the common fruit bowl, enjoy raw vegetables and sushi bars, and double dip at all the parties again.

But as “normal” life returns with doctor visits and tests interspersed at expanding intervals, maybe I’ll see a woman outside of the oncologist’s office, in public, with a funky wig on, or a cap that reveals a too-bare neckline and typical sideburns missing. The kerchief will show no bulk of hair below or wisps sticking out. She won’t have eyelashes or eyebrows. Maybe she’ll have one of those pink-ribbon pins on her clothing. I’ll smile and nod to her like a fellow motorcycle rider even if she doesn’t get the message, even if she doesn’t understand that we travel a similar road. It will be my reminder to keep guard, keep watch if ever I have to return to the chemo lounge chairs where it’s sure no dance club.