Taking My PoisonTaking My Poison

The gentle health professionals met with me one by one to discuss the harsh chemicals that would soon find a home in my veins. These individuals would become my medical team for the next six months. They explained their roles in my care, pausing at each step for questions that might have difficulty rising to the surface. My anxiety was not shy. “I’m afraid of human error. Afraid I’ll accidentally be overdosed on chemotherapy and die from the cure.” There, I’d said it, and they weren't insulted. Polite social chatter is the domain of people with a certain future, and I couldn't afford not to express my fear.

“There are procedures in place to prevent that,” a nurse answered. Procedures, a word that often implies layers of burdensome activity, suddenly carried the meaning of hope and reassurance. A computer was programmed to catch numerical errors; the pharmacist would review the medication before it was dispensed, then ask his assistant to double-check it. The nurse would then check my wristband to make sure she had the right patient, but not before calling another nurse over to double-check the drugs and the dosage a final time before they were administered. It was a thoughtful explanation with just enough facts to reassure but not overwhelm me.

Reassurance is one thing, but total confidence is quite another. The possibility of human error didn't leave my thoughts. How could it? I considered human error by degree. Someone gives me the wrong change in a store. Easily fixed. A tailor alters a much-loved dress and it's too tight. Not so easily fixed, but I could recover. A deadly dose of chemotherapy. No fix there, but I had expressed my fears and was progressing toward acceptance.

My acceptance was shaky because I still worried if the very human members of my chemotherapy team led perfect lives with impeccable work ethics that precluded them from human error. Then again, did I want a robot preparing my chemotherapy doses and raising a robotic arm to administer them? No. I recalled how I never look into the cockpit when I board an airplane because I don't want to see the pilot as just an average person with human frailties. I look the pilot in the eye only when I debark. My chemotherapy treatments would be a much more intimate journey: I would have to look the nurses and the pharmacist in the eye from the start and trust them to do their jobs. The foundation for trust had already begun when I realized I didn’t have to worry if my physician was a math wizard because the computer would catch any decimal points out of place. I vowed not to spend my time worrying about things I could not control. After all, I was there because I had cancer and was already thrust into a world of uncertainty. But it didn't stop me from hoping the pharmacist and the nurses got enough sleep and led happy, focused lives.

On the first day of treatment, I sat straight in one of four reclining chairs in a long, narrow hospital room in front of a silent television and worked on my trust. As part of my orientation, I had learned it was best to leave the television off. I was now happy no patients had challenged the staff's suggestion to forgo afternoon viewing. The last thing I was in the mood for was the antics of daytime television. It was noon and my lunch was about to be my first chemotherapy treatment. Soon, the drugs were checked and double-checked and brought before me. They were presented in clear plastic bags—a poor substitute for a steak sandwich. They would become the first dose of poison to drain through my veins. The nurse pushed the handle to recline the chair, leaving me in a position that would have been comfortable under different circumstances. She looked well-rested. I was happy Jerry Springer wouldn't have a chance to distract her.

A bank of windows stretched across the room, opening up a view of a busy thoroughfare and Kmart just beyond the street. With eyes closed tight I could have pictured shoppers racing the aisles in search of blue-light specials, but I opened them wide and saw the red poison about to slowly drip into my entry vein en route to the rest of my body. It was not a life-affirming red like blood. Instead, it looked like fruit punch that was way too sweet. In future treatments, I came to anticipate this redness because it reassured me that the physician had prescribed the right medicine.

These chemotherapy lunches developed into a routine that brought a small amount of normalcy for the amount of time I sat through the chemical assaults on my body. At least I knew what to expect. The routine was my new normal, albeit one that I looked forward to leaving behind. I began to wish for happy, contented lives for the health care team, not because I didn't want them distracted, but because they became important people in my life. They administered the chemotherapy with quiet efficiency and remarkable compassion.

Dressing for the chemical assaults was one of the few things I could still control. I didn't need to wear combat clothes, but I did select a uniform that would carry me through the months of treatment. It was summer in California and there was no reason not to be comfortable while I received my poison. I bought a T-shirt just for my treatments. It read “I Have Seen the Gates of Hell.” It referred to an exhibit at the nearby Rodin Sculpture Garden, but it fit my circumstances just fine. I wore this gray T-shirt with black linen shorts to every appointment. By the second treatment, my bald head added new flair to the uniform.

I had always been blessed with thick, healthy hair. I was convinced it wouldn't abandon me, though I was advised it would all fall out by the end of two weeks. Almost two weeks to the day, my hair was entirely gone, and I was surprised to find it didn't bother me to be bald. After decades of studying photographs to find the perfect hairstyle, and years of highlighting and straightening my hair in a quest for that one good hair day, I decided that with all health concerns considered, hair was overrated. “Hair” became just another “h” word, but one with considerably less impact than “hope.”

Hope was something I thought about often. You might say I banked on it. I recalled my mother instructing me through childhood illnesses: “Take all of your medicine, it will make you better.” Of course, you always hoped your mother was right, but the memory of bitter syrup on a spoon didn't compare to the reality of chemotherapy treatments. I was an adult and I knew the medicine dripping into my veins was going to make me feel bad, very bad, for weeks at a time. Some nights it was so bad, I lacked the strength to breathe. In the middle of the night, I sat up in bed and worked at drawing in breaths until they slowly sank to my lungs.

Books from friends of happy thoughts and meaningful sayings carried the day. Nothing too heavy, just enough to jog my mind into remembering generic pieces of wisdom I had heard throughout my life. “Live each day to its fullest” came to mind. You know the saying, how there may not be a tomorrow so live each day as if it might be your last. Great, just what I didn't need to think about on a treatment day. I hoped there would be a tomorrow when I could taste my food and have the physical strength to breathe easily and to live life to its fullest.

And then it happened. On the first day of chemotherapy's round 2, the morning newspaper reported that a cancer patient at a local county hospital died of an overdose of chemotherapy. The power of having verbalized and discussed my fears was realized on that day. I immediately began to mentally review the procedures at my facility. I learned from the newspaper that some of these procedures were lacking at the county hospital. When I mentioned the story to the nurse who brought my chemotherapy, she said she hadn't heard about it. She wasn't on duty the day I had openly discussed my fears. I was comforted when she immediately went into procedure-mode, checking the drug and the dosage and lifting my hand to check the name on the wristband against the name on the bag of treatment. We discussed how my treatment had already been checked and double-checked before it got to me. Looking into her all-too-human face, I searched for signs of stress and found none. Then I slowly held out my arm so the IV could be inserted. Having survived round 1, I decided to accept my position as patient. But still I watched—watched everything extra carefully that day.

Almost two years after my treatment was completed, I look to words again to express my feelings about chemotherapy. Words got me through dealing with my fears, but they were also there for me in the beginning of the journey. Upon first learning I had cancer, I subconsciously looked to words for protection and comfort. I initially told people, “I’ve been diagnosed with cancer,” as if padding those extra words before the word “cancer” would cushion me from actually having it. It would be at least a month before I finally broke down and said, “I have cancer.”

Now that these drugs have transformed my body forever, I feel the need to speak to them directly.

So, Chemotherapy, you are evil, snarly evil. And yes, I did mean to shout at you. You robbed me of every hair on my head and left me as bald as the day I was born. You robbed me of my ability to taste and to breathe easily. You left me weakened and vulnerable to any bug passing by. You introduced pain to the core of my bones.

Do you remember the day we met and I had a different voice? I told you to come close and listen while I whispered. I said I would not call you by your nickname of “Chemo,” lest you think I might sound too friendly. I was straight with you from the start. We were together in the battle for six months and I would be counting the days.

For those six months I felt like I was in a dependent relationship in which I needed to put up with the abuse to my body. I needed you to destroy all of my living cells to fight the cancer. I couldn't leave you. I knew that.

Notice the formality in my voice even now. Chemotherapy, you robbed me of my physical strength but not my spirit to go on. The sheer force of your power gave me hope that I would recover.

And so today I acknowledge your part in my recovery. Yes, you contributed to my ability to attend a blue-light special. But it was your wrath that helped me realize that each clear breath I now take is a joy rather than a reflex to be taken for granted.

Still, I offer this caution: You will never be “Chemo” to me.