Anyone who knows will tell you that Chemotherapy is poison. You feel it running through your veins like a blow torch gone wild.
.
Alex would complete six cycles, each one lasting 21 days. Before the start of each, she was required prepare the week before, which happened to be the last week of her current cycle, beginning the wretched process all over again: medication for anxiety and another for nausea, steroids, and fast moving benadryl. Then her body would suffer the miserable indignity of eight hours being filled with IV bags labeled “Do not come in contact with human skin”. Even in her pathetic state, it did not go unnoticed that the oncology nurses would never start or finish the process without wearing special protective gloves.
.
After the diagnosis Alex spent three days underneath swollen eyes and mindful terror, but then, true to form, she got cracking. She arranged that her marketing director, an eager young man with a future to build, would handle the management of her company for the next few months. She studied the kitchen calendar to be sure that all of Andy and Amy’s academic, performance, social and extracurricular activities and needs were planned for and in place. She made a quick trip to her parent’s in Rhode Island. She made sure the kids understood that they needed to be “uncharacteristic angels”, in her words, until they could all get through this, and she did her best to comfort Mike, who at this early stage seemed almost catatonic.
.
“Mike”, she said one night as they got into bed. “What can I do?”
.
“Don’t die”. he pleaded. His voice sounded terrified. She knew he was clenching his pillow.
.
“Mike,” Alex said. “Don’t think about that. Think that I am going to be nagging you to paint the garage and take down the Christmas lights. Or think that I will withhold sex the next time you drink too much.”
.
Mike reached for her and they both smiled. Alex put her arms around her husband and for the only time she could remember his broad shoulders felt small.
.
“Mike. Some people do survive.”
.
Now in the darkness of their bed, she knew he was crying.
.
“Mike…” That’s all she could say. She brought him into her and centered her breathing. In the months ahead he would recall the way she said his name that night, and he would remember that his wife loved him.
.
Alex would complete six cycles, each one lasting 21 days. Before the start of each, she was required prepare the week before, which happened to be the last week of her current cycle, beginning the wretched process all over again: medication for anxiety and another for nausea, steroids, and fast moving benadryl. Then her body would suffer the miserable indignity of eight hours being filled with IV bags labeled “Do not come in contact with human skin”. Even in her pathetic state, it did not go unnoticed that the oncology nurses would never start or finish the process without wearing special protective gloves.
.
After the diagnosis Alex spent three days underneath swollen eyes and mindful terror, but then, true to form, she got cracking. She arranged that her marketing director, an eager young man with a future to build, would handle the management of her company for the next few months. She studied the kitchen calendar to be sure that all of Andy and Amy’s academic, performance, social and extracurricular activities and needs were planned for and in place. She made a quick trip to her parent’s in Rhode Island. She made sure the kids understood that they needed to be “uncharacteristic angels”, in her words, until they could all get through this, and she did her best to comfort Mike, who at this early stage seemed almost catatonic.
.
“Mike”, she said one night as they got into bed. “What can I do?”
.
“Don’t die”. he pleaded. His voice sounded terrified. She knew he was clenching his pillow.
.
“Mike,” Alex said. “Don’t think about that. Think that I am going to be nagging you to paint the garage and take down the Christmas lights. Or think that I will withhold sex the next time you drink too much.”
.
Mike reached for her and they both smiled. Alex put her arms around her husband and for the only time she could remember his broad shoulders felt small.
.
“Mike. Some people do survive.”
.
Now in the darkness of their bed, she knew he was crying.
.
“Mike…” That’s all she could say. She brought him into her and centered her breathing. In the months ahead he would recall the way she said his name that night, and he would remember that his wife loved him.
This is hard to read. It's such a difficult and painful subject. I don't even like to think about it.
ReplyDeleteRemarkable!
ReplyDeleteLittle details paying off all the way through.
Well done!
Another well written chapter. Hard to read because it's a hard topic-but well done! And by making us care about the characters FIRST, then the hard stuff, well, that's great timing.
ReplyDeleteAgree it's difficult to read because too close to home ... I like the “uncharacteristic angels” sentence - kids can be surprisingly really good with such circumstances.
ReplyDeleteeveryone, i feel bad at parts like this because your loyalty in reading the story of lily and alex is repaid with sad chapters...
ReplyDeleteI have a lump in my throat from reading this chapter. It feels so real. And i could relate maybe because I have thought about death and how it will affect my husband and children. My sister-in-law passed away in 2000 and I could see how much it affected my husband's brother. She left three kids (2 pre-schoolers and a 3 month old baby) behind when she died. So I have thought about it and we talked about it. And I know how difficult it is to be faced with a spouse's demise.
ReplyDeleteHeartbreaking and sweet ... the broad shoulders suddenly small, the toxic liquid that can't touch the skin but Alex takes into her veins ... whew. I echo Milady, well done!
ReplyDeleteI watched my own Mom go through this - it was brutal. Well-written.
ReplyDeleteI am not reading (as you know), too much caring and other tasks untill I find a new routine. Good luck writing, much inspiration, much pleasure in doing so. And how is mister Ryan ?
ReplyDelete