“What do they do to you at chemo?” asks Benny as I’m snuggling in bed with the boys before school. Every morning while John is in the shower, they both run from their room and climb in here and we power cuddle. Freddy has me draw pictures with my fingers on his back that he has to identify. Benny behaves like some kind of baby animal that I have to guess each morning.
This morning, he keeps sniffing and scrunching his nose and wagging his bottom and making little yipping noises. “A baby fennec fox,” I say. “Nice, Mom!” he exclaims.
Don’t get too excited: I have an inside line. He’s been a fennec fox the last six days in a row.
“So, they put me in a chair and they give me medicine,” I tell them, sketching my fingers over Freddy’s back. “It’s actually not too bad.”
Both of the boys dislike chemo days because when they leave me I’m pretty normal and can help them fix their waffles and everything, and by the time they get home from school I’m pale and cranky and want to be left alone.
“I would escape,” says Freddy. “I would get Benny to pull the fire alarm and then I would run out the door when no one was paying attention.”
“But I want the medicine,” I say. “Just like when you were in the hospital and we wanted the medicine to help with your diabetes.”
“Oh man. I always forget that part,” says Freddy. I’ve just finished sketching a hot air balloon on his back. “Is it a heart? I mean, not a heart symbol but like a real human heart with veins coming out of it?”
“No. But I like yours better,” I say, erasing the smooth skin slate with the pads of my fingers.