I'd like to say I had something clever to say; that I was like Bette Davis in "Dark Victory." "I think I'll have a large order of prognosis negative!" But all I remember mumbling is, "This is so… disruptive."It was explained to me that the chemo treatment would touch me on a cellular level. It would be a carefully diagnosed regimen, tailored to me and my needs that should clean my system, killing anything nasty that may be lurking in there.
Mine was to be a Bard PowerPort, a smallish device with the slogan "You Have the power!" I imagine the exclamation mark is supposed to make you feel empowered, excited even, about having this foreign object implanted in your body, but I was less than enthusiastic at the prospect. Just before the festival we had a cocktail party, a last chance to relax with friends before the storm of movies and mayhem. The port's mojo was strong that day. It felt as though it was throbbing, it wasn't, but for some reason I was hyper aware of the lump in my chest. It distracted me. Reminded me. Bugged me. A few drinks in I decided it would be a good idea to let it drop that I had colon cancer and would soon start chemo. I immediately regretted blurting out the news.
Another friend insisted on driving me to and from chemo. A nice gesture to be sure, but what if the chemo makes me throw up all over the back of his car? Worse, what if I upchuck all over him while he's driving? I declined the offer figuring I feel less guilty puking out the window of a cab than all over my friend's Lexus. It's a Sophie's Choice to be sure but if I was going to unload, I'd rather do it in front of a stranger and then give them extra cash for a car wash.
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