Babies

This morning (or a few days ago, depending on when I decide to post this), I got to spend a blessed hour watching the couple-months-old daughter of a good friend.

I held her swaddled body close while swaying back and forth. It all came back. Those motions and the soft murmurings (not really saying anything at all, just letting that beautiful baby know you're there) that happened so naturally when my two were new came back in a rush while cradling this perfect little girl. She fussed a bit and I rolled her over so she was facing the floor as I patted her back. She sucked her pacifier for all it was worth until her whole body relaxed into sleep. Turning her just slightly so I could see her delicate (tiny!) features I was so grateful for the opportunity to hold her for those precious moments. It felt so familiar and yet so distant. Distant from my life of independent, active, wiggly, outspoken toddlers. 

And then I felt a little robbed.

Because I should be able to have as many of those perfect babies as I darn well wanted to.

Cancer is a jerk. The worst kind of jerk. 

The Infusion Center

When I go in for treatments (once a week these days, soon to be once a month), I go to what is called "The Infusion Center." It's a big room with medical recliners around the perimeter, each with a small TV that probably doesn't work, an uncomfortable chair for your spouse or friend, an apparatus for hanging IVs, and 3 different trash cans. One corner of the room is well stocked with snacks, as well as a fridge, coffeemaker and blanket warmer. About 6 nurses are always hustling around helping people.

The nurses—along with the snacks—are the best part of the infusion center. They are just so nice! When you walk in, Wendy and Alice will wave or say "Hi." Dotty remembers who you are, what you're suffering from, what snacks you like, which side of the room you prefer, which side your port is on, and what kinds of medications you have had bad reactions to in the past. As Eliza sticks in your IV, she jokes around with you and asks about your family. When your husband shows up with his head shaved, Mike laughs about how he almost kicked out that shady character because nobody recognized him. Sharon runs for basins when you want/need them, apologizes when the proteins in your vital port make it so you're in that chair for 4 hours, and scrounges up a pillow when something she gave you makes you incredibly tired. They are all just great.

As I close in on my final chemo treatment, I've been wanting to bring something to these wonderful nurses, but I don't really know what. Baked goods? A plant? Any ideas? What says "Thanks for taking care of me when I was at my lowest"?

You have got to be kidding me

So here's the deal. I'm on week 11 of 12 chemo treatments - so close to being done I can taste it (no really, I can taste the chemo treatments). Unlike *ahem* previous chemo regimens, things have been pretty easy. I thought I was going to make it home free without A) being bald again and B) any unfortunate trips to cozy up to the toilet.

But.

Today I got to spend some quality time with the porcelain throne.

And when run my fingers through my hair (it may not be long, but it's there), inch-long strands come away on my palms.

And I think "Why'd you have to get my hopes up?"