June 10th, 2010: It All Comes Up Eventually

I was awoken this morning after only five hours of sleep. I'd forgotten that Mom's infusion is today. Infusions of medicine happen intraveneously (via IV) and happen about once every three weeks for Mom. Today's the day. And I went to bed too late and forgot about it. So it goes. My brain's been overwhelmed since I've been home. I can forgive that. Of course, I got up, did my morning meditation and went upstairs to have a quick breakfast.


That's when Mom told me that the vomiting had begun. What else could I do? I gave her a hug and off we went to Fox Chase Cancer Center for her infusion. After a cup of coffee and reading the god-awful news on today's sports page, I was actually starting to feel half-human. We were in the lobby of the center for not even 15 minutes before Mom had to vomit again.


Off she ran to the bathroom. I got up and got her a cup of tea so she'd have something comforting when she got back. But the tea didn't stay down too long. There, in her seat in the lobby, Mom began vomiting again. She'd brought a plastic bag to her chair — I have no idea how she'd thought of that — and pressed her face into it. I got her a trash can and, when she'd finished, went back into the infusion room to ask them to please expedite her. The cancer center prides itself in all of its commercials for excellent care and service, but having to wait an hour each time we've gone there speaks another story entirely.

But - miracle of miracles - they moved mom back into the infusion room and started to set her up.  So, here I sit, next to Mom, in a room full of cancer patients as saline, then Benedryl, then Zometa and then Avastin are all pumped into a vein in her right arm.


And I wish there were something I could do to stop this awful nonsense. But I cannot. All I can do is be here, let her know that I am here no matter what and then, where and when I can, take good care of myself to keep myself as healthy as possible for her and Dad.


I continue to fall down in that regard, but I continue to get back up. I feel like a boxer who's committed to going the distance: I know I'm gonna get punched. In the face. Repeatedly. But I also know that I'll be fine and will pull myself back up, bloody or not.


Now's not the time to give up. Not on her and not on me.