Chemotherapy Cycle 1, Day 1

I see information sheets about the Wednesday Afternoon Chemotherapy Orientation sessions.  An opportunity to learn how chemotherapy works, what to expect and tips about surviving this ordeal  It's Monday and Mother began her chemo today.  Too late for being prepared, but not too late to learn.  I think I will go.

We entered the clinic this morning as two innocents, clueless about the specifics and feeling confidently informed about the generalities.  Oh, dear me.  There's more to this than we had imagined.  There's medicine to prepare you for the medicine to sustain you through the chemicals that kill the cells and disturb your body systems.  One at a time.  The first given in incremental doses to prevent the nausea and measure your tolerance.  The next, then the next and after that more and more.  Seven hours of one medication or chemical after another. Seven hours of sitting in a "one size fits all" recliner, dozing, sitting, snacking, but too anxious to read or focus on any one thing for longer than 10 minutes.

Ten recliners in one room and one special purple "lab" chair.  Gradually, the recliners fill and and empty as people come in for their prescribed dosage.  Some stay for a few hours, others for a shorter time.  The purple chair is reserved for the privileged few who come in for a shot.  In the chair for 10 or 15 minutes and then out they go.  Some chat.  Most don't.  Calm energy, weariness, fear, anxiety, determination, hopefulness are written on the faces and whispered in the undertones of the few conversations.  This is a purposeful group of people.  They are here to be cured, to have their lives returned to them, while wondering (or knowing) that the best outcome is less pain and more comfort.

Today we have confidence that survival and resurrection are ahead.  We have hope that the side effects will be minimal and that life can go on as usual.


O God, the strength and the comfort of sufferers: Mercifully accept our prayers, and grant to your servant Barbara. the help of your power, that her sickness may be turned into health, and our hopes into joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

And now for the real news . . .

Thursday morning in the doctor's office, we were learning about CHOP and R-CHOP, viewing the PET/CT scan on the doctor's computer screen (Cool! Wow! Look at that!).  Four of us crammed into a small examining room and one on the cell phone, listening closely and carefully for every note of this Eucharistic prayer.  Yes, Eucharistic - thanksgiving.  There is hope and relief.  Resurrection from this disease is possible.  Survival is not only a possibility, it is on the horizon.  We can see glimpses of the dawning star that promises another day.


O Lord, holy Father, giver of health and salvation: We give thanks for the news of hope and resurrection, as your holy apostles anointed many who were sick and healed them, so we beseech our Lord Jesus Christ to sustain Mother with his presence, to drive away all sickness of body and spirit, and to give her that victory of life and peace.  Amen.

Getting the news.

Whenever the word cancer is finally said out loud, everything stands still for just a moment. Then there's a jerk of the soul. Time to pay attention to what the doctor is saying. Set aside the emotion,  the fears,  the soul-wrenching terror of losing a loved one.

Focus on the words. Lymphoma. Quality of Life. Treatable. There's hope. Really there is. What does that all really mean?  Does Mother have to go through that pain all over again,  but this time for herself and her own traitorous body?  Treatable but not curable. Are we anticipating years,  months or weeks? 

Questions run through the mind. They rest for a nano second and then flutter away. Sometimes they race and swirl around faster and faster. Dizziness. Grab on to the chair arm to stabilize and find composure. And then when the inevitable question about questions comes,  the mind is blank. Paralysis sets in. The only words that come out are, "I don't know." I have to think. Absorb. 

My very being is screaming "NO!"  While I compose myself for the tasks and conversations ahead,  my heart underneath breaks. My soul grieves and cries.  "No fair. This is not what I wanted for my mother. No way. No how."

Lord Jesus,  be with us in our hour of need.  Strengthen us to drink from this bitter cup. Amen.