Finally after countless repetitions of rights, lefts, ooohs and ahhhs, a doctor strolled in the room with a red liquid. I had, by then, given up my idea that I had contracted lockjaw and looked hopefully toward the man as he approached. The contractions had slowed in frequency as the hours passed, yet my mind still begged for relief.
"Well, we finally figured out that your muscle spasms were the result of the anti-nausea drug that had been administered to you; drink this and I'm sure you will not have any more problems… just don't let them give you any more of those shots!"
I took the red liquid and drank it down; it burned like fire. I thought of my stomach, hoping that my draught would not infuriate it to the point of plotting a revolt; I had been lucky through the afternoon, having experienced no symptoms of nausea during the facial contortions. Reflecting upon this favorable aspect, I realized the hours could have proven much worse, and was relieved that I had ignored my stomach's plea for breakfast.
The following morning I departed for Curie with an aching jaw; it was minutely reminiscent of the feeling I would acquire after chewing a large wad of bubble gum.
Once at Curie we promptly notified the nurses and Dr. E. of my unusual episode of the previous afternoon. Dr. E. nodded his head slowly, his mouth working nervously. "That drug will sometimes have that effect on patients, but it happens so seldom, I didn't want to mention it to you." "Gee, thanks," I mused, silently. Personally, I would have liked to know all the facts. "Oh, well," I thought, "maybe it was no big deal, but to us it was worth a good scare and a couple of laughs."
A nurse came in and shut the door, instructing me to drop my pants. "But I'm not supposed to have shots any more," I protested. "This isn't a shot," she said. "It's a suppository…for nausea," she added. "Oh!" I swallowed my distaste for the idea, dropped my pants, bent over and took my medicine.
By the end of the week we were fairly used to the routine. We discovered that the driver of the courtesy car would let us out and pick us up in front of Curie, which saved my energy. For security, I learned to carry my white cardboard "barf bucket" to and from Curie. Unless I was lucky, I would throw up all afternoon and into the evening; we therefore devised a way to make the bathroom comfortable by spreading a towel on the floor and placing a pillow nearby on which I could lay between seiges. Near 8:00 p.m. I could usually eat an egg,toast or a potato. Mom helped me clean up and dress for bed, then I would attempt to sleep until I had to wake and repeat the process.
After the fifth treatment, Dr. E. came into the room to set up my next date for receiving chemotherapy. My particular schedule was to appear approximately every six weeks for five days of treatment; each patient had his own ritual in which the drugs and their dosage, as well as the duration they were received, were as uniquely determined as his type of cancer and its extent. Chemotherapy incurred numerous variables, and the reaction depended on the drugs administered and the condition of the patient. I was amazed to discover that some recipients did not lose their hair or become nauseous in the least. Some even gained weight and carried on relatively normal lives, working and attending social functions, and basically thrilled they were alive; they complained only of their excessive rendezvous with needles. Although my effects were far from ideal, I was relieved that I was able to receive my treatments at Curie as an out-patient; free from the hospital. One's morale is better maintained, even if the breeze is felt upon one's face only to and from the clinic.
Dr. E. and my Mom conferred over a calendar, finally agreeing upon a date lying within the six week bounds. We would receive a packet containing specific appointment times in the mail shortly before our next visit. The doctor returned to my room as the nurse was wrapping my hand. After exchanging a few pleasantries of conversation, he sobered and said, "You'll have to buy a wig as soon as you can once you are home…" Hair loss would not be a gradual affair after having such a drug and his warning was not intended to be brushed off; I nodded that I would comply. "I'll see you in six weeks then," he drawled, and allowed us to depart from the room at our leisure. I took another white canister from the counter top and we stepped from the cubicle.
Mom had already stowed our bags in the car for our departure, so upon our return to the motel, we merely inspected the room once more for articles we might have overlooked and then made our way to the car for our homeward journey. I was seated beside Mom, outfitted with two white canisters, while she packed a sack of apples as an energy booster through the seven hour drive. Knowing that we would soon be wrapped in our own blankets improved my spirits to a great degree, despite haphazard retching sprees and pervasive weakness.