At chemo, they can never find my veins anymore. It’s a side effect of the chemo itself, which has a way of frying whatever it touches. Dr. Cavanaugh is resistant to my getting a port put in: “I don’t want anything unnecessary messing with your immune system at this point.”
“It’s like I’m fishing in a big, empty ocean,” says one of the nurses, examining my arm with one of their high-tech vein-finders as I stare out the window. “It’s pretty lonely in there. I’m so sorry I can’t find anything.”
Just outside the treatment area is a roof deck with picnic tables and lounge chairs and huge planters full of flowers. A family is unpacking bags and bags of Chick fil-A.
“Once we get the drugs going can I take my IV and go sit out there?” I ask the nurse. “I think the sun would feel good.”
It’s always chilly in the cancer center, and early on you learn to never say no to the warmed blankets they offer you. They might be the very best thing about the place.
“No,” she says. “Sorry. Patients aren’t allowed out there. Just family members. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
One of the children with the picnicking family is breaking off pieces of waffle fry and tossing them over the railing. The mother is holding him on her lap, but hasn’t noticed. She is talking urgently on the phone and keeps glancing back in at all of us patients in the treatment area. A grandmother looks on from across the table, smiling and clapping with the child each time a chunk of food disappears over the rail. At chemo, I can never find my center anymore. It’s like a big, empty ocean.