I had my twenty-fifth infusion treatment at MSK today. It has not gotten easier, but I have gotten used to it.I’ve gotten used to the route there and back—Route 35 to 684 has got to be one of the most monotonous byways in the region just north of New York City.
I’ve gotten used to never knowing exactly what to expect (e.g. how long will we wait? Who’ll be my infusion nurse? Will I feel hungry or snackish or have no appetite at all? Will they surprise me at the very last moment with an extra blood sample or a urine sample kit . . . or worse, the other kind of kit?)
I’ve gotten used to politely declining the offer of a warm blanket before I’ve even taken my seat in “The Chair.” Those treatment rooms are hotter and stuffier than the back seat of a school bus that’s been waiting in the sun for thirty minutes for school to let out.
I’ve gotten used to not being able to do much during an infusion. I expected to pass the time playing Banagrams or Jotto, writing postcards, or even painting my nails (the infusion rooms are singles occupancy.) The tray table is too small for games. One hand is strung up by my IV, and that’s if it’s not on ice. And the heavy dose of Benadryl I get before they push the real stuff makes me a pretty sloppy competitor, writer, and painter.
I’ve even gotten used to the fact that no matter what exciting news you get—Your CA-125 is down! Your WBC is up! You look so much healthier than the last time I saw you!—the news is still kinda lousy because it’s about the cancer that you still have.
I haven’t gotten used to people who’ve miscalculated their two-inch voices or use the clicky keyboard on their mobile device or receive 242 notifications within the span of an hour or play mobile games with boingy-boingy or—this is truly unbelievable—shooter sound effects.