Here I Sit

Here I sit.  Once again.  Waiting and questioning.

  • Will my blood be “up to snuff” for tomorrow?
  • Will I need to wait longer for my final chemo?
  • Do I have the courage to face “one more”?
  • Do I have the ability to physically face “one more”?

Here I sit.  Once again.  Waiting and worrying.

  • I am tired.
  • I have lost my appetite.
  • Those pills are going to be HUGE.
  • Here I sit.  Once again.  Observing.

A few people meander in.  The lady beside me spills her tea (I didn’t jump up to help – not like me at all… I’m tired).  A man checks his cell phone (for Pokeman?).  A couple walks by – she is very well dressed.  Are they visiting somone?  The food cart sits in the hall by the elevators, waiting to be addressed.  The vents behind me are blowing heat (thank goodness as I am cold!).  The lady beside me is almost finished cleaning her tea – she has yet to look up to see my sympathetic gaze.  Would I look up?  The Cafe Royale volunteer sprints across the room for some reason and giggles as she enters the foyer.  What was the joke?  A family walks toward the imaging department – all three on their phones.  I’m tempted to jump in front of them – but I’m too tired.

“All cleaned up?” I ask the woman beside me.

“Oh, someone wasn’t thinking,” she replies with a smile. I smile too.

“I’m sure it was the table,” I reassured her.  She smiles and sits down.  She opens her iPad.

I hear the white noise that can only be produced by a hospital – is it the fans?  Is it the machines?  Is it the continual drone of people chatting quietly?

The sun tried to escape the clouds.

Hey – there is my volunteer friend who serves me cheese and crackers in the chemo suite.  Shit.  Chemo.  And I’m back.  I remember why I’m here:  tomorrow.

I worry – will I have my final chemo tomorrow?  Will I be strong enough to go through it again?  I anticipate Dr. Singh’s questions.

  • How have you been feeling?
  • Are you eating?
  • Are you sleeping?
  • How is your energy?

The questions don’t bother me.  It is more her summary that concerns me.  I anticipate and drive myself crazy:

  • Your white count is low so I’m going to have you take Neulasta.
  • Your red count is low so we are going to wait a week
  • Your insurance won’t cover the cost of the olaparib (however that is spelled)
  • You need to start those 16 pills right away – even if you are nauseated.

The lady beside me has settled into her spot.  Her shoes are off and her feet are up on the chair.  She looks relaxed.  I wonder if she is really feeling more like me?

I sip my water.  It tastes good.  This taste will disappear over the next week – to be replaced by metal.  It is worth it, right?

“God, I hope I’ll get my hair back,” I think to myself.  Dare I ask that question?  Do I want to know the answer?  I look it up.  I read.  I hold my breath.

“55% of women will die within 5 years,” claim the scientists.

THAT IS UP FROM 16%!  I am optimistic.  I am hopeful.  I can buy time.  I’m good.  Although a 55% chance of rain often indicates that it will rain.  Still – that ‘s better than a 84% chance of rain.

The lemon in my stomach has made my stomach upset.  My stomach has troubled me all through this chemo round.  I take ant-acids, but there aren’t enough to help me 24 – 7.   Maybe a more permanent antacid would be in order.  Do I look that up?  No.  Not now.

The sun has now fully emerged.  The hospital is bright and cheery. My volunteer walks by again – with her cooler in her hand.  She makes me smile.  I hope that she will be there tomorrow.  I hope that Amy will be there tomorrow.

Tomorrow.  If tomorrow is the day.

Here I sit.  Once again.  Waiting and questioning.

About inmycorner

This blog began as an opportunity to tell my Dad's stories. I sat with him and the computer and together we told stories. It was a wonderful way to get to know Dad. He was 9. He and Mom had a wonderful life together and since she passed away a year and a half before him - Dad was ready to join her. I no longer tell his stories but have found stories of my own. The impetus to resume this blog was the discovery that I had stage 4 ovarian cancer. Since blogging had been so therapeutic for my dad and I to get through our grief, I felt maybe this would be a good outlet to process my situation. I also hoped it may serve as an outreach to anyone else who is facing this very ominous journey. So far, so good.
This entry was posted in cancer, challenges, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

14 Responses to Here I Sit

  1. Kristen Hill says:

    If anyone can get through this struggle, it’s you Stacey! I’ve been following along your journey as many others too, I’m sure. I’m rooting for you, because I know you will win. Your courage and beautiful outlook on life is so positive, you are already winning! I’ll be thinking of you as you tackle this last chemo and I’ll be happy to know when you are back home enjoying your beautiful family and life. Cheers! 😊

    • inmycorner says:

      Oh, how thoroughly sweet, Kristen. I am counting on your confidence today, my friend. Thank you for this very affirming and well timed message. Enjoy the sun!

  2. sharechair says:

    You are so strong and continually optimistic. You face, with grace, situations that would leave others in puddles. You’ve got this!!!

  3. Jan Duff says:

    Hey You!!!!

    I want to be sitting there beside you, blathering on and distracting you from all these worrisome thoughts!

    Seeing as we have been immersed in Olympics coverage for days/weeks, let’s make an analogy between you and an Olympic runner: You are 100 yards from the finish line (your last treatment) and you’re dragging. Talk to yourself and give it that last minute kick and the burst of energy that gets you to the finish line (i.e. tomorrow’s chemo, or whatever tomorrow brings). –crappy comparison, but have I distracted you for five minutes?

    Talk to me, Stacey.

    Much love,


    • inmycorner says:

      Ha ha – Jan. You just made me smile out loud. People will wonder what I’m up to. Yes – I’m on my last lap. Writing has given me the wind I need to continue to sail (is that a summer Olympic sport?). I was reminded of all the people who I’ve known over the years who have supported me. This time, I remarked on the names I know on the plaques around the chemo lounge. I do feel better. Now – your going to have to read my lastest post. Keep with the program, pajama Jan! grin. Love you!

  4. Harlon says:

    I am sitting there, right with you. With support and love, Harlon

  5. Judy says:

    Oh my god, Stacey. I feel your apprehension. When you write with such detail, I feel swept along with your words. I’m holding my breath and praying for the very best outcome possible. Sending a hug.

  6. You aren’t sitting there now. You never have to stay there long Stacey. Just long enough to power up to kick some ass.

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