There are three good things about chemo day. (Actually four,
if you include the life-saving aspect) Firstly, I’m amongst my people. Most
scenarios, I’m the only person wearing a wig, and the only one with a secret.
Yesterday I invited an acquaintance in for coffee, and once we got in my house,
I realized I couldn’t take my hat off (my hair sometimes comes with it). But at
Mt Sinai Hotel & Spa, my brethren surround me.
Today, in the waiting room, I was the only one with hair. Three women wore kerchiefs,
two were wearing hats, and one had a glorious purple scarf wrapped around her
head, a sparkling diamond clasp at the nape of her neck. Another woman, the
most beautiful in the room, was completely bald, and glowing. I’d seen her a
week early, with full dark Mediterranean curls. Now she was even more gorgeous,
fully accessorized, laughing, and acting as though hair had been an
inconvenience her entire life, so she’d decided to get rid of it. Like a bad
marriage. Or a futon.
The second good thing are the egg sandwiches. A cheerful Scottish volunteer rolls around a trolley full of food.
Today she was wearing pearls.
Amongst her wee snacks are juice, cookies, cheese & crackers, and
egg sandwiches. She hands
them out to everybody, patients and companions alike. As far as egg sandwiches goes, these are the really good ones only found at senior’s bridge games, and funerals.
Squishy white bread, a
thin layer of egg (with a droplet of mayonnaise), thoughtfully cut on the diagonal.
When she saw us walking down the hall (en route for a blood taste) she was genuinely
concerned that we might miss our treats and drove her trolley at top speed to
load us up with cookies. Later, when we were settled, she came by and offered
Jim a sandwich. “Egg or Tuna dear?” His eyes lit up “ Egg Sandwich, Please!’’
Thirdly are the nurses, and particularly mine, Nurse Marion. She
moves around the room as though she’s hosting a cocktail party, handing out blankets,
sharing tips on shoes, and checking my IV bag. “Oh look dear, we’re almost done
with this one, let’s have another!” she says merrily, as though it just occurred
to her that one more Mai-Tai might just be in order. Her mood, like the other health
care people in the room, is decidedly upbeat.
As we left yesterday, loaded up with cookies and juice (something
for the road) I said goodbye- to Marion. In the corner of the room was a fragile
looking lady, sleeping under a blue blanket. She was in a vinyl lazy-boy like
mine, and her little bald head was resting on a pillow. As the trolley went on
it’s final round, her head jerked straight up and she said, “Dammit! Did I miss
the sandwiches?”
Just another day at the spa.