The kids are deeply annoyed that I’m headed back into chemo. They hate it when I’m not there to pick them up from school, to schlep to piano lessons and swimming, to pack their snacks, help plan their class parties. And I appreciate that their enormous self-centeredness is still intact.
“Didn’t they do a lot of chemo already?” Freddy asks at supper. “What kind is this one?”
“It’s called Adriamycin,” I say. “It’s bright red. Like as red as Kool-Aid. The nurses called it the Red Devil.”
“We’ll bring some home for you as a treat,” says John.
“No thank you,” says Benny with genuine indignance.
I tell the boys it won’t be much different from the last time.
“But this time you have to do it without your mom,” Freddy points out. “I would hate that.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I have you guys. Seems like given all your super powers and epic warfare strategies, you might be able to help me with the Red Devil.”
“The problem is they’re lazy,” says John. “They’re only interested in vanquishing evil when they’re in the right mood.”
“Totally,” I say.
That night John finds the boys asleep with the lights on in their bunk. Freddy has been drawing a comic book: Red Devil vs. the Cell Creep. You know the tale.