The Infusion Room

We were not entirely sure what to expect when it came time for Andrew's first outpatient chemotherapy. We walked down the long hallway to the back end of the Huntsman Cancer Hospital, crossing the skybridge into the Hunstman Cancer Institute. Andrew checked in at the front desk and we took a seat in the lobby.

There were about 10 people in the lobby with us. We were quite obviously the youngest ones there. The middle-aged women looked at us with pity in their eyes. The older-men had tired scowls on their faces. The older women spoke amongst themselves in hushed whispers. One woman sat in the corner knitting. We played handheld Solitaire games and talked and laughed.

The longest part of the wait was before being called back. Sometimes we would wait for hours in that waiting room. Near the beginning of his chemotherapy days, we were patient and jovial and pleasant. We would talk and laugh and joke and play games. As the chemotherapy started to have an accumulative affect on Andrew, the waits got quieter and he grew impatient and edgy as we waited.

Once called back, you entered a long hallway-like room with about 15 modified patient armchairs. The nurses were clad in special chemotherapy gowns and masks. They looked like the hospitals own personal HazMat team. The room was generally quiet and had a depressing feel to it. On either side of the long room there was a "kitchen." They had coffee, teas, juices, milk, and different varieties of crackers and cookies and fruits.

Andrew and I would talk and laugh throughout his chemotherapy. It was our day together. We would plan lunch and spend the day together. The infusion room provided the stark realization that we were just kids. While most remained quiet, slept, read or knitted, we joked with each other, played games, and tried to keep a smile on our faces.

The nurses would sing a song on someone's last day of chemotherapy and give the patient a homemade blanket. It was sung to the tune of Happy Birthday:

"Congratulations to you,
Your chemotherapy is through!
We wish you good health
and happiness, too!"

After about 8-10 rounds of chemotherapy, Andrew's attitude and demeanor began to deteriorate. He was increasingly sick and fatigued from the chemotherapy. Many times, the mere anticipation of the infusion room invoked vomiting. It began getting harder and harder to accompany him. His spirits were down and he was frequently edgy and bitter. The post-infusion transplants had long since stopped... he was now lucky to make it home from the hospital without having to pullover to vomit. He began changing the words of their song around for his turn.

"Congratulations to you,
your chemotherapy is through.
You now need a transplant,
so good luck to you."

The end of his infusion room days was anything but a landmark for him. All it meant was that now he would be receiving a bone marrow transplant and would have to remain inpatient for a period of time.

Another chapter begins.