Wednesday, March 5th:
The anticipation is killing me. It's nervous energy.
Is this going to be like last time? Was that just a fluke? Because that was awful.
When you are trying to distract yourself, sometimes the mind will wonder everywhere to make that happen. This was the case for today: my next bout with chemo.
The chemo room was cheery as usual.
The nurses shuffling around minding the never ending sound of a drip gone dry. It's on to the next one. "Would you like a straw with that?"
I panned the room as usual, looking to locate the place where I had grown comfortable sitting during treatment. It is the last chair down the line. By the window. Next to the table with puzzles.
I never do the puzzles.
Again, for the second week in a row, my chair was occupied. Luck was not on my side. Instead I took the ONLY available chair in the room. Right next to the maintenance man fixing an electrical issue in the ceiling, who drilled in the same spot for close to an hour. Just what I needed to make this trip even more relaxing. A drill. Head phones please.
My annoyance was only multiplied when I realized the occupant of my security blanket chair was in fact not a patient. but rather just a freeloader coming in for the show.
Hey, the rest of us have our friends and loved ones sit in the uncomfortable chairs behind us. You're not special. That's not your chair. You don't have cancer. That's not your cancer chair.
Just breathe.
I panned the room more, taking in the scene. It was always the same. Every round. Judging by the sign-in sheet, I again was the youngest person in the room. I always am. By at least fifteen years.
I am surrounded by sleeping wrinkles and over enthusiastic over-sharers. I see more heads full of silver and white than the expected bald badge of courage.
But every time I also see their loved ones. Also wrinkled. Sitting there sipping coffee and offering unwavering support.
Then they see me, and they all look confused. You can see they want to ask me. But they can't. I have head phones on. Mostly because of the drilling, but mostly because I don't want to talk about being young and in that room.
I immediately avert my gaze. Dart my eyes to the television or my phone. I play possum. Maybe they didn't see me.
Other times I just close my eyes. Imagine I can feel the drip coarse through my veins. It's cold in my imagination and I have to shake off the imaginary chills.
Wait... what was that? Oh yeah, the music.
I finally tune in. Pay attention. Listen to the music in the head phones.
This round it's the new Eli Young Band Album. Their warm familiar voices help. It soothes with an engulfing wave of happy thoughts and emotions from a time spent with less care and worry. Nights chasing cheap specials and early morning headaches. What I would give for a beer in a familiar place, surrounded by familiar people, shouting "don't stop believing", hanging onto something that was never ours but we're going to claim it anyway. And once we shut that place down we're starting a grassroots movement to Whataburger for 3 am taquitos. I know you're with me. Cause you've been with me all night. Every night. From Lucky Lou's to RBar. From every beautiful dive bar dream this town has to offer.
Happy thoughts.
Then the IV finishes. Reality kicks in and I'm back in the chair. My cancer chair. Not your cancer chair.
Now the rest of the experience begins. What fresh hell will this round bring? It doesn't matter. It's better than the alternative.
The First Day
Monday, March 17th:
The first day of school is always exhausting. This was no exception.
I was back. Back in my classroom. Back at work. And there were many, many students. And they all wanted answers. But like everyone else, they didn't know how to ask the questions.
It was a long day. I answered a lot of questions. I heard from a lot of students and faculty. I'm not sure if I have ever hugged that many people in one day. I thought I had a sign on me, "Free Hugs, ask me about my cancer".
Each hug felt better than the last.
I cannot express the amount of care, love, and support I have received from my school. Students and teachers alike. They have raised and donated countless dollars. They have sent letters and made posters. They decorated my room with welcome back signs and streamers. They brought tears to my eyes. In class.
I love those kids in that school. And I guess they like me too.
I will never be able to understand or believe that I deserve the outpouring of love I have received from those kids and that school. I am humbled and moved by their actions. In the face of it all, I do feel that I am lucky.
Cancer treatment. Yet I AM the lucky one.
Thank you.
Here are some of the signs and posters with messages left by my students. These are what I found when I walked into class Monday.
The day was exhausting. It was challenging. But these messages and the actions of my students make it all worth it. Honestly.
I am lucky.
My next treatment will mark my half way point. I am also supposed to get a PET scan at this point. Big week. Let's do this.
#StrongerThanCancer
Give Forward
The anticipation is killing me. It's nervous energy.
Is this going to be like last time? Was that just a fluke? Because that was awful.
When you are trying to distract yourself, sometimes the mind will wonder everywhere to make that happen. This was the case for today: my next bout with chemo.
The chemo room was cheery as usual.
The nurses shuffling around minding the never ending sound of a drip gone dry. It's on to the next one. "Would you like a straw with that?"
I panned the room as usual, looking to locate the place where I had grown comfortable sitting during treatment. It is the last chair down the line. By the window. Next to the table with puzzles.
I never do the puzzles.
Again, for the second week in a row, my chair was occupied. Luck was not on my side. Instead I took the ONLY available chair in the room. Right next to the maintenance man fixing an electrical issue in the ceiling, who drilled in the same spot for close to an hour. Just what I needed to make this trip even more relaxing. A drill. Head phones please.
My annoyance was only multiplied when I realized the occupant of my security blanket chair was in fact not a patient. but rather just a freeloader coming in for the show.
Hey, the rest of us have our friends and loved ones sit in the uncomfortable chairs behind us. You're not special. That's not your chair. You don't have cancer. That's not your cancer chair.
Just breathe.
I panned the room more, taking in the scene. It was always the same. Every round. Judging by the sign-in sheet, I again was the youngest person in the room. I always am. By at least fifteen years.
I am surrounded by sleeping wrinkles and over enthusiastic over-sharers. I see more heads full of silver and white than the expected bald badge of courage.
But every time I also see their loved ones. Also wrinkled. Sitting there sipping coffee and offering unwavering support.
Then they see me, and they all look confused. You can see they want to ask me. But they can't. I have head phones on. Mostly because of the drilling, but mostly because I don't want to talk about being young and in that room.
I immediately avert my gaze. Dart my eyes to the television or my phone. I play possum. Maybe they didn't see me.
Other times I just close my eyes. Imagine I can feel the drip coarse through my veins. It's cold in my imagination and I have to shake off the imaginary chills.
Wait... what was that? Oh yeah, the music.
I finally tune in. Pay attention. Listen to the music in the head phones.
This round it's the new Eli Young Band Album. Their warm familiar voices help. It soothes with an engulfing wave of happy thoughts and emotions from a time spent with less care and worry. Nights chasing cheap specials and early morning headaches. What I would give for a beer in a familiar place, surrounded by familiar people, shouting "don't stop believing", hanging onto something that was never ours but we're going to claim it anyway. And once we shut that place down we're starting a grassroots movement to Whataburger for 3 am taquitos. I know you're with me. Cause you've been with me all night. Every night. From Lucky Lou's to RBar. From every beautiful dive bar dream this town has to offer.
Happy thoughts.
Then the IV finishes. Reality kicks in and I'm back in the chair. My cancer chair. Not your cancer chair.
Now the rest of the experience begins. What fresh hell will this round bring? It doesn't matter. It's better than the alternative.
The First Day
Monday, March 17th:
The first day of school is always exhausting. This was no exception.
I was back. Back in my classroom. Back at work. And there were many, many students. And they all wanted answers. But like everyone else, they didn't know how to ask the questions.
It was a long day. I answered a lot of questions. I heard from a lot of students and faculty. I'm not sure if I have ever hugged that many people in one day. I thought I had a sign on me, "Free Hugs, ask me about my cancer".
Each hug felt better than the last.
I cannot express the amount of care, love, and support I have received from my school. Students and teachers alike. They have raised and donated countless dollars. They have sent letters and made posters. They decorated my room with welcome back signs and streamers. They brought tears to my eyes. In class.
I love those kids in that school. And I guess they like me too.
I will never be able to understand or believe that I deserve the outpouring of love I have received from those kids and that school. I am humbled and moved by their actions. In the face of it all, I do feel that I am lucky.
Cancer treatment. Yet I AM the lucky one.
Thank you.
Here are some of the signs and posters with messages left by my students. These are what I found when I walked into class Monday.
The day was exhausting. It was challenging. But these messages and the actions of my students make it all worth it. Honestly.
I am lucky.
My next treatment will mark my half way point. I am also supposed to get a PET scan at this point. Big week. Let's do this.
#StrongerThanCancer
Give Forward
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