Almost Done

One day last week I missed calls on both my cell and office phones, both from the same unknown Boston number. I immediately panicked; it had to be the hospital. Melanie, my chemo nurse, had left messages in her British accent asking me to please call her back. As I dialed I rapidly invented scenarios that were both plausible and frightening enough to make me dizzy: they had given me the wrong chemo dosage last week, the wrong drug altogether, the IV needle hadn't been sanitized, there was something up with my platelets.

I was surprised and relieved when Melanie didn't want to talk about me at all. She was treating a 22 year-old girl for the first time and wondered if I'd be willing to speak with her about the chemo regimen, what symptoms to expect, how to live around them. I was immediately apprehensive - after 8 chemo sessions the only thing I'm really confident about is that each one will be different. As Melanie handed the girl the phone, I heard her say "Nora's a year older than you, going through the same thing you are."

I got the chills, jarred by how strongly I identified with this girl. Speaking with her was like speaking to my self of 3 months ago. Her only question was, "What's the hair situation?" I talked to her about the wonderful wigmaker I went to, and about deciding not to get a wig, and about how my hair used to look and how hers looked now.

"We have the same doctors," she said. "We can gossip about them."

Mostly, though, in my mind, I couldn't stop the steady flow of questions I wanted to ask her. Did she have the itching? The fevers? Were they having trouble finding her veins? How bout that needle? Did her jaw hurt yet? I knew exactly where she was, tipped back in the chemo recliner, perhaps mildly sedated, waiting for the pharmacy to concoct her custom drug mixture. Was the Dacarbazine diluted? Did she feel prepared?

She was subdued on the phone, and explained that she had been diagnosed weeks ago and had waited to start treatment. Her lymphoma was in a more advanced stage than mine had been.

"You're almost done," she said. "You will be too," was all I could think to tell her.