Sailing On Through

Sailing On Through

         As I pulled into the Maplewood Cancer Institute on Friday afternoon, I thanked God this was the last of my sister, Deb's chemotherapy treatments.  For many weeks, we, along with her second oldest daughter, Dani, had been an inseparable trio.

         Jamming the gearshift into park, I grabbed my worn leather purse from the passenger seat of my old and faithful mini-van.  Old as she was, she'd managed to transport me here, plus another trip to bring my sister down to my mom's place, and then back home again.  It was about a six hour drive for eight straight weekends.  I guess she deserved a trip to the car wash or at least a good vacuuming.  What else could you give a beloved vehicle?

         Within a few moments, Deb's newer red Chevy whipped into a spot next to me.  She'd always loved to drive fast, and I thought back for a moment on all the wonderful, if not dangerous, rides we'd shared in her 1968, blue Ford Mustang.  Racing down country roads, laughing and enjoying being young.  Shutting her car off but leaving the radio cranked to her favorite rock station, Deb rolled down her window as I approached.  "Hey Sis," she said with a smile that said, I'm smiling, but I ain't liking it!

         "Last one, huh," I offered putting up my hand for our usual high five.

         Just then her daughter who, shared her passion for fast driving, raced down the center aisle and slipped easily into the vacant spot next to her mom.  "Wait for me!" she yelled enthusiastically.  Her bright and shining personality had carried both her mom and I many a day.  Dani was a pretty, petite, slender brunette going on twenty-two, and full of boundless energy.  "What's up," Dani said with a big grin that showed off her pearly-whites.  "Man, last one, Mom," she told Deb reaching in through the open window and hugging her fiercely.

         I watched this tender moment with a lump in my throat.  Deb wearing her knit cap with the braids I had cut from my hair two months ago attached by Velcro in the back.  Yes, the face was older now, but somehow seeing those braids flooded my mind with images of us in high school.  We'd been just two young girls with nothing more to think about than make-up and boys.  And Dani, so sweet and thoughtful; always there to cheer her mom on.

         Hand-in-hand the three of us walked for the last time through that parking lot, into the  main waiting room and finally making our way to the overflow room in the back.  It was quieter here, and less people to be gawking at us with sympathetic stares; sometimes sympathy was the last thing a cancer patient wanted.

         They never made you wait long, and so her name was called, and we proceeded in.  Making our way down the long corridor which took us past the "Collection Agency," which was the name we gave the woman's office in charge of finance.  I'd refused to let this woman, vulture, in my opinion, harass Deb for the meager one hundred and fifty dollars she owed, which she had ruthlessly demanded several weeks ago.  She was always on the lookout for anyone to jump on, and as we walked past, I deliberately glared at her, daring her to even think about getting up.  She'd fidgeted in her chair and shuffled some papers looking away from us.  Deb had great insurance and at seven grand a pop for the liquid gold they were pumping into her, owing that meager sum was next to nothing.  Old-miss-money-pants apparently thought otherwise.  "That's right, you better not get up," I said loud enough for her to hear as we went sailing by.  Deb and Dani burst out laughing, which was the usual way we made our entrance into the chemo room.

         All around us were grim faces, those of the other patients as well as their friends and relatives.  Who wouldn't be depressed in this room; all the patient chairs and tables faced the nurse's station and their myriad of supplies and contraptions.  It was not the most pleasant of views, so being the rebels we were, we immediately rearranged everything in our little cubicle.  We turned the large patient chair and our two smaller caregiver ones to face the long and wide windows, which over looked a pleasant little landscape out the back of the building.  Beautiful shrubs and pretty flowers strewn among rocks and grass and complete with its own resident family of geese.  It was a much better choice.  At first some of the nurses had balked at this, but I told them this was how we were going to sit, and they would just have to work around it.

         We fell right into our little routine; once the chemo got going, I normally did my comic relief, which consisted of drawing funny things about the nurses, doctors and the people who were pocketing the big bucks.  I'd draw pictures of the insurance company executives grinning with dollar bills and tickets to the South of France flying out of their jackets, while visions of yachts danced in their heads.  Once I drew a caricature of my sister with an I. V. line going into her port with the liquid gold done in yellow marker, and the financial prude standing menacingly behind Deb with her greedy, plump hand outstretched.  We'd be all but falling on the floor and peeing our pants, of course, as quietly as we could.  I'm not usually considered a comical person, but for some reason during that time, I had my own stand-up show, and we laughed more during the chemo sessions than I can ever remember laughing in my life.  I think it is what got us to sail right on through the whole God-awful experience.

         Then Deb would get sleepy and fall asleep, and Dani and I would decide which place we wanted to order our lunch from.  Dani insisted on buying her mom and auntie lunch every time, and no Mickey-D's either.  She and I would go pick it up, somewhere like Noodles & Company or TGIF's and haul it back.  Usually, by the time we got back, Deb would wake up and say she was starving, and we'd have a regular feast complete with malts or floats to wash it all down ( I think her appetite remained good, because of the amazing drug called "Aloxi," which blocks the signals going from the brain to the stomach).  It was like having an indoor picnic right there in that depressing room, and we'd be laughing and smiling the whole time.  Sometimes, when we left, I swear, we were absolutely giddy.  I don't know what it was, but in the beginning my sister had stated "I just want to sail through this," and sail through is exactly what we did.

         Later that day, Deb and I went to a mall.  There was this young artist that painted pictures on 4 x 4 ceramic tiles, and we asked her do one of Dani, Deb and me.  It turned out great.  It was a cartoon picture of three little girls linked arm in arm, and it said "Rebels, We Did It! "  She keeps it in her hutch on a little stand, and when I come to visit and I see it sitting there, I just smile.