As he had promised, a nurse came in, shutting the door behind her, and produced a syringe. "This is a shot to help keep your nausea down a bit," she said, motioning for me to unclasp my pants and bend over. What a mosquito bite, I thought, pulling up my pants.
Shortly afterward another nurse appeared bearing IV solution, tubes, syringes, needles… the works. I laid down as she strapped a tourniquet around my arm and began her search for a vein. It was a slow, meticulous search, which necessitated a smaller needle; she knew she would never probe the large one into any of my poor, tiny veins. The nurse opened a drawer, producing a needle which had plastic tabs on either side of it; "This is called a butterfly needle," she told me. "Butterfly…" I echoed, peering gratefully at the tiny needle with plastic wings. She drew the tourniquet tightly about my arm once again, this time hastily securing a usable vein and taping the needle in place; wasting no time, the IV bag of solution was hung from a pole above my head, into which a syringe was emptied and consequently diluted. Immediately I began to taste the liquid running through my vein, but I subdued my discontent, hoping that the sensation would disappear; it did not, however, until the drug had filtered into my system completely. As the bag of solution gradually coursed through my veins, slowly, due to the small size of the needle, the nurse re-entered the room to watch its progress. When it had emptied, she raised the bag from its pole, removed the tube connected to the needle in my arm and opened two syringes; hooking them, one at a time, into the butterfly unit, she squeezed the drugs from their containers. My vein which accepted the drugs felt icy, as if a frigid breeze had been directed on my hand from an internal source; an involuntary shudder passed through my body.
"Okay… you're all finished," the nurse said, smiling widely. She pulled the needle swiftly from my hand, pressing a square of alcohol saturated gauze to the arm, then wrapping more gauze tightly around the needle "wound" to prevent further bleeding. I found that pressure applied to the area helped immeasurably to ward off bruises and I would therefore often hold my hand or arm in a vice-like grip for several minutes after a needle had been removed, thereby lessening the chances of a gruesome bruise and its accompanying discomfort. Thus, I held my hand tightly with the other and slid off the table as my Mom stood to leave. "What are those?" I asked the nurse, pointing to two white canisters made of cardboard. "Those are in case you get sick… do you want to take one with you?" "No… I feel okay so far. I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, happy that one injection was over, yet realizing the fight had just begun for me.
Cancer invited numerous battlegrounds and INCALCULABLE wars. Researchers were plagued by their hope to unmask the potion which would be the cure, the precious liquid or pill which would purge cancer from our bodies and crush its memory forever. Doctors invested time and energy to diagnose the most beneficial methods of treatment, prescribing the horrifying potent drugs to their patients while promising better days to come. And the nurses were great. Many of them were quite young, beautiful girls. They didn't seem to mind their daily business of poking and jabbing, despite the occasional "wailers" which could be heard, protesting the needle prick or the mere thought of it, from somewhere down the hall. They walked about, wearing pleasant, genuine smiles, as if their appointment in life was a joyful one; dealing out poison with a steady hand, trusting unquestionably its supposed ulterior motive of killing cancer cells and saving lives.
And yet, battered lives were everywhere, scaling all age groups, races and religions, for cancer knew no barrier and bore no prejudice; cancer took the weak the strong, the indifferent, the proud, the cheerful, the embittered… it took all, greedily, in an unquenchable hunger. Some it took slowly, savoring each minute, while others it consumed rapidly, stealing life with a voracious appetite; still others, a paltry few, were ignored and allowed to linger awhile on earth, facing the question of death while embracing the essence of life, until another hand embalmed their existence.
Cancer searched for one's true friends; it could bolster some relationships and destroy or alienate others, for the word was as malignant as the disease and struck fear in the stoutest minds and the truest hearts. Its scars were inflicted on the patient, his relatives, his friends… and its wounds were deep, blackened by the apprehension of death; a will to survive could challenge the meek while the ultimate humility scoffed at another's pride until it bent into humble disquietude. Inner wars evoked change; in this area cancer posed great opportunities, for it was the pirate of both time and the quality of life, and if one neglected to acknowledge these as life's greatest assets, he was living valueless and blind; money, power, prestige… vanity… were rendered obsolete worries or gained a new perspective for those who saw the need to change and courageously sought that end, whether through insight or the forced enlightenment of unavoidable death.
Secure in my values, cancer itself could not crush or debilitate my inner self; it clarified myself, bringing forth both fortitude and frailty, defining my character; I was who I always had been, emotionally enlarged and with a keener sense of awareness. The physical battle with cancer is enough without also having to struggle to regain or develop one's values and relationships; I was fortunate, indeed, to be packing the right ammunition to the front line of battle.
We dismissed Curie and the subway, ascending to our car's level in the parking ramp. The sun shone brightly through the ramp's open construction of cement and steel. I squinted instinctively and turned my head away.
Once in our kitchenette, I turned on the T.V. and stretched out on the couch. The drapes were drawn shut and I preferred them to remain so; natural light never seemed to enhance the appearance of a motel room and lent the furniture and other appointments a rather brash, gaudy flavor. Light brought forth defects with indisputable accuracy; as the drugs flowed through my body, I knew that the awaited irregularities of treatment would soon parade victorious and unabashed about the domicile, and out of sheer discord, I too, would shun the sun's scathing glance. My only wish was to blend into the shadows and lie completely unobserved.
The TV was, at once, a blaring disturbance and a welcome distraction. It helped pass the time, but also reminded me of the slow rate at which time was drifting away. Between soap operas and game shows, advertisements about detergent that actually conditioned one's hands, and gasoline; "Ping, ping, ping, Leonard…" filled the afternoon. Suddenly I realized that my first post-treatment symptom was beginning its onslaught. Nausea woke my deadened senses and I sat up, nervously alert, trying to decide whether I should make my painful exodus to the bathroom or stay seated on the sofa a brief while longer; sometimes the mere sight of a gaping toilet bowl was enough to prompt my nausea to overflow, and picturing the sight in my mind, I decided to put off the inevitable until I was certain I could wait no more.