March 2012.
Kim is a champion. Before starting chemo, we have an appointment at The Agency, where Carl and I get the Coles notes version of how to give her this daily injection she needs. It's a white blood cell booster and needs to be given roughly around the same time everyday. So the plan is that I’ll do them during the week while we're at work and Carl gets weekend duty. What is our training you might ask? Three practice rounds on an orange. The nurse recommends we practice at home. I’m all for getting outside my comfort zone to learn new things, but this will be a challenge. I have to stick a needle into my friend everyday. I have to put on my big girl boots and get over the fear of hurting her.
Everyday. Eleven o’clock. I look over at Kim or she looks at me. We give a nod. Kim grabs the arsenal of supplies and we head down to the larger washroom on the main floor. I’m nervous. This isn’t something I can figure out as I go. I practiced on the orange, but without the real thing, there is a leap of faith and trust one has to make.
Here we go. Injection #1. Wash my hands. Sterilize. Check the vial and needle. Fill the syringe. Check the needle for air. Sterilize Kim’s skin two inches above her belly button (each daily injection needs to be in a new place, circling around the belly button). Pinch the skin and throw the needle, almost like a dart. Kim is as comfortable as you can be sitting on the back of a toilet while your friend jabs you with needles. I have to remind myself to breathe. I can’t really believe we’re doing this. She trusts me and I don’t want to hurt her, she’s been through enough already.
Kim keeps her eyes closed. “After the count of three, two…” Bam! The needle is in. Then I have to push the plunger in, the slower the better. Too quickly and it’s painful for her. “Are you okay?” I ask. She nods, somewhat convincing. Oh my goodness. Breathe. Once the injection is done, pull the needle out. I got this. We got this. Breathe. Grab the cotton ball. Apply pressure. Exhale! We did it! Go team! I am shaking. This is nuts.
We are in our routine. Everyday, eleven AM injections, set in motion with a nod. We have our laughs. We learn as we go. And there are, of course, a few hiccups. Like the time the needle bounces back at me, stuck in her skin. No, no, no! Poor Kim, just sitting there with a needle half in. I have to actually push it in - are you kidding me? She is a trooper. I know it is painful. I know this is not fun for either of us, but we both put on a brave face. After we get the job done, we have a laugh. In the midst of all of this, one of the many things I am grateful for is that we still find the humour. Sometimes so much that we can’t stop laughing.
I join Kim at a chemo session. She’s done quite a few rounds so far. This is the second chapter. For these four rounds, on top of the regular chemo, they are injecting her with this vibrant red stuff. Not only does it look scary, but the fact that the nurse wears protective gear isn’t exactly reassuring. We have our arsenal of healthy snacks, magazines and other entertainment. We continue to have giggle fits about things that likely only we find funny. We can really crack ourselves up.
I venture to use the washroom. The Agency smells like a hospital plus a cloud of lingering toxins, the chemicals being pumped into everyone on this floor. My heart hurts for all of these people. You can see the pain and uncertainty in their eyes.
The second session I come to is in a different room. We have all our stuff. We are past the halfway mark, and Kim’s body is tired from the regular beating it gets. This session she falls asleep. She isn’t hungry. Her vitality is waning. I sit and quietly chat with the woman next to us.
The intensity of it all has caught up. The treatments are wreaking havoc on her body. Each session is like getting knocked down. She builds up strength only to get knocked down again. Her body doesn’t have the opportunity to swing back to normal before the next session. Even though her overall energy is lessening, the sessions maintain their intensity. This is not a fair fight. Kim needs to rest as much as possible.
In between sessions, there are days she’s in so much pain that she can’t get comfortable. Even lying in bed is painful. She describes it like having the flu but multiplied exponentially. Everything aches and hurts - lights, noise - any stimulation is too much. I can’t even imagine. Sometimes we lie there and talk and sometimes we don’t say anything. She curls up. I see the pain in her eyes, and it breaks my heart. I remember the same look in my mom’s eyes, and it terrifies me. But this isn’t about me. It’s about finding an ounce of respite for Kim if we can. “Why is this happening to me?” Kim asks. I have no answers. I can’t fix this. I can’t take on the pain for her so she can rest a little and get some strength back. All the same feelings I felt when Mom was sick. They are rearing their faces again. They come knocking often. There isn’t anything in life I regret except for one thing - I wish I’d spent more time with Mom, just sitting with her when she was sick. So now that my dear friend is sick and in pain and her body is reeling, I do a lot more just being there. To find the moments of laughter, to cry together, to be silent together. This is the bottom of the wave. It’s the worst. There are no rainbows and unicorns here.
- Krista