Well, it was the moment I’d dreaded. Last night, I had terrible dreams of Cisplatin, the platinum-based chemo drug which would rip my stomach from my body and leaving me in front of the “throne” all night. (I had made sure that the bowl was as clean as possible before my awful day.)

You see, the minds of cancer patients tend to envisage the worst when the doctors are not clear, plans change without warning or excuse, or words are dropped by medical professionals. (This theory has been tested by research.)

Fortunately this time, things don’t go as planned.

Dad got me to the Cancer Treatment Center by 8:15. I was in and out of radiation by 8:30, same ritual as yesterday but quicker. We sauntered – Dad in light brown pants and shirt, me in gray sweats and a light-gray tee, over to the chemo waiting room where I told the young receptionist that my appointment was not until 9:30 but I was told to try stopping by after my radiation. We sat down, after one cancer patient moved to another vacant chair to create two seats together for us.

A girl called me back to take blood, then we resumed our seats. Until 9:30a.

I was taken back to the chemo room, with dad coming along. The pretty blonde nurse of Polish ancestry – born in Gallitzin, moved to Ft. Lauderdale, then moved up here to Altoona (both Dad and I can extract such information, but Dad gets the credits this time)… I’m lost in this sentence. I’ll try again.

There was a row of comfy chemo chairs in which for patients to sit, and I was seated at the one closest to the wall with the opening to the hall. Susan, the nurse, was there to answer my questions and explain things to me, as Dr. Lieb and Dr. Shocker had left us with more questions than anything else.

What was the drug? “Platinol.” My heart leapt, as it was not Cisplatin! As it would be, though, Susan glibly explained that this drug was also called Cisplatin. I bit my lip.

Diane had done some research and discovered a mode of treatment called Fractionated dose chemotherapy, which involves smaller doses more frequently. The main side effect, Susan warned, would be fatigue. The treatment for this would be… rest.

To be honest — and why not? — that sounds like a plan right now.

If there is sickness, I should take the prescription Compozine we had purchased using Lieb’s signature.

My hair would thin a little, as hair follicles renew quickly and would be impeded, but that would grow back.

I praised the Lord, as I am wont to do when things go well, and I asked Dad to call Diane when he was back outside the waiting room, let her know the good news. He did, and she said his phone call lifted her spirits until she looked at the clock an noticed that I wasn’t home.

We were there from 8:15a until 2:15p, so that’s six hours. The extra time was so they could process my bloodwork, which won’t happen again. Diane and I will have the blood taken on Thursdays after radiation.

The chemo room is pleasant, divided barely into two sections: one with a TV and the “quiet section” without. I sat on the side with the TV, which was tuned to the local NBC affiliate. No one was watching it, and I asked nicely if they’d tune it to channel 75, “a news channel.” It was FNC, of course, and I noted that after it was on, the patients and nurses started watching the TV, commenting on the news, offering opinions, cracking jokes, etc. Most of the stories on during those hours (Hemmer & Kelly, E.D. Hill) are entertaining and/or outrageous.

I talked to other patients, and we had light time of it.

At one point, Susan asked if I had a sister who worked in the hospital, as she knows of a girl who looked just like me. I noted, “A very attractive girl, then.” Susan replied, “Very, and…” Another patient, over on the quiet side with Susan, interrupted, laughing: “Not a lot of conceit in that family.” I replied, “Ladies, I’m teasing!”

Dad came in to visit me at one point, and I told him what Susan had said, asking if I had another sister about whom we had not been told. An old Navy man (Cuban Missile Crisis), he asked: “You weren’t in Germany were you? Italy? Ireland?” That’s Dad being Dad, and it gives me hope that I WILL NOT have slowed down WHEN I REACH AGE 67. That’s what I know, and that’s what I have to keep in mind unless I am told otherwise and a gun is placed to my head.

I described the Chemo Room because that is a part of the treatment. It’s the environment. A new friend, a lady who has been dealing with cancer, explained to me early on that I’ll find that I have a new family of the other patients, and it’s true. There is something special about a smile from a bald lady in a ballcap who knows and sympathizes with your affliction.

How am I now? No nausea yet. I feel as if something has been done to me, which is true, but it’s nothing debilitating. And I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing at long last what my treatment will be. Dealing with it is something else, but it is doable and will hopefully be successful. My prognosis is good, and I am again in spirits as close to ebullient as my reality will allow, what with what I had feared.