In the Infusion Room
I read somewhere that chemotherapy used to be so awful that it had to be administered in the hospital under sedation. The room where I receive my treatment is large, spacious, and sunny and I’m generally only there for the duration of the treatment which has never been longer than a few hours. The chairs are easy-to-clean vinyl loungers, the blankets are warmed in advance, and the Wi-fi is strong, generally. I’ve come to think of it as similar to boarding a plane in a spacious first-class cabin. I’m going to be there for a few hours, not able to do much more than what I can do sitting, and the nurses even offer (free) snacks. Destination: one step closer to getting rid of this cancer.
IV poles poke up along the aisles of loungers. They remind me of garden stakes in a vegetable plot but instead of the names of what plants will emerge from the dirt, the plastic bags name the drugs dripping into the patient. Instead of marking new life emerging, the labels denote what cancers are being snuffed out, hopefully anyway.
I have moments when I feel like I’m in some version of the Wizard of Oz. The doctors are like Scarecrow, accessing all the information stored in their big brains to troubleshoot and solve the problems, side effects, trying to get all of our bodily systems working together. The nurses and nursing assistants and even the administrative staff are like the Tin Man, always checking in that we are doing OK, offering warm blankets and pillows, snacks and water, really listening and offering suggestions for how we can be more comfortable. I suppose that we, the patients, are the cowardly lion, then. Not that I feel particularly brave because I don’t feel like I have a lot of choice in the matter right now. But I suppose that there’s a certain amount of bravery in each of these interactions, in being honest and vulnerable, in asking for help and what I need.
I’m loathe to venture down the road of asking, “Who is the Wizard of Oz?” I say “loathe” because I don’t want to think that there’s a “villain” in all of this. And I suppose maybe it’s the insurance companies and maybe the pharmaceutical companies, controlling what treatments will get paid for and which won’t from behind the curtain. I have to believe that, at times, the curtain gets pulled back on these institutions and systems that seem to, at times, exist first and foremost to make money. I’ve got to believe that sometimes a little light, a little humanity shines into these places and they are able to join the others in the ultimate goal of healing. Otherwise, maybe they can all just float away in a hot air balloon.