Kelly Corrigan's
memoir of growing up—
the first time,
and the second time. [Click here] ....................................
by Kelly Corrigan,
36 years old, Stage III Breast Cancer Survivor
Kelly writes a bi-monthly column on everyday life. If you'd like us to email her columns to you, click -->
The Infusion Center, try as it might to be something more, is like the kitchen of a preschool after lunch. Half-eaten people lying around in various states of disarray. Some newbies like me, the perfect little baloney sandwich with one or two neat bites out of it. Some old timers where the jelly has seeped through the bread and the peanut butter has been forcefully removed by greedy, dirty hands. The kind nurses have seen it all, like the teachers who manage to whistle while they systematically address the mess, day after day.
I find a seat and Edward settles in beside me. We share the room with about 8 other patients, most with a friend, nurses coming and going. Catherine, a soft-spoken woman with a revealing smile, talks me through the routine. First some pre-medications to fight nausea, then 3 huge red vials of drug no. 1 (Adriamycin) which she will administer slowly, so she can monitor my reaction, and then a 2 hour drip of drug no. 2 (Cytoxan). In about 4 hours, I'll be disconnected from the IV and set free. It'll be dinnertime then, and I'll probably be hungry. I won't feel the side effects kick in until the morning.
I am ready. Me, with my mound of brown hair exposing my inexperience.
Catherine punctures the skin and the IV is in. There's nothing to it. No heat, no chill, no tingling, nothing. The sounds of the room are hushed and infrequent, like the first class cabin on an airplane. Some patients are reclined in their chairs, sleeping away the time. Others knit, or read the paper. A professional woman next to me types lightly on her laptop, not letting anything interfere with her deadlines. Nurses bring juices and blankets like stewardesses, whose purpose is to keep you safe but whose time is generally spent keeping you comfortable.
Like flying, some people are bothered by the inherent, unspoken risk involved while others have managed to put thoughts of disaster aside, casually going through the motions until touch down. And a few have been on too many dangerous flights. Maybe they lost someone in a crash, years ago. They are rattled by what they've seen.
I am the optimistic first time flyer, trying to impress the staff with my youthful, chin-up bravery.
