I’m sitting in the infusion room. It’s the eighth time I’m in an infusion chair getting an infusion, and the third time in this room. It feels oddly familiar, but still different every time. I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t want this to be part of my life. I have two more infusions and then I’m done – at least for now. I have a nagging feeling that I will have to get more chemotherapy sometime in the future, but that is the worrier in me speaking. I have to believe that I am cancer free already and that I will never ever get cancer ever again. I’m listening to music on my phone, Billie Eilish, and by coincidence her song My Future is playing and she is singing “I’m in love with my future – can’t wait to meet her”. I’m taking that as a good sign that my future is bright. 

I believe I will be able to not worry too much about reoccurrence once I’m done with this in November and once I get back to a normal state – as normal as things can get in this not normal world. Even now on my good days I forget about the state of affairs and I’m happily ignoring the fact that I am recovering from cancer. It wasn’t before last night when I put my pills out that it sunk in that I’m starting a new cycle. I had to take a deep breath and hold back the somber thoughts and some tears when I opened the chemo pill bottle. I took out six pills and put them in the small bowl I keep my daily dose in – 12 large pills -2 different drugs – my bowl of candy. 

The infusion room I’m in is a big U-shaped room with large windows. It’s a busy room buzzing with activity but still strangely isolated. I can’t see much of what’s going on. Each chair is in its own stall like area separated by purple curtains. It feels odd to be so close to people that I can’t see. On one side of the chair is an instrument to measure my vitals as needed – blood pressure, heart rate, temperature and oxygen uptake. On the other side of the chair is the instrument that pumps the drugs into me. 

I take my earphones out and I hear only the buzzing sound of other people and then suddenly I hear a woman in a stall close to me having a panic attack. Her nurse comforts her by telling her to take slow breaths. Even though I can’t see her I can’t help but feel her pain and I have to take several deep breaths myself to not start crying. One tear escapes and trickles down my cheek. This is a place where none of the patients here want to be. In the waiting room this morning I saw a fit young man with caps, t-shirt and shorts. His upper arms were covered in tattoos and his hair was shaved. He was leaning forward in his chair. His hands were stretched out with his elbows on his knees and his palms were facing up. He was praying. None of us want this to be a part of our lives, but it is and we are all coping as best we can and all in our own way. 

I’m now going to put my audiobook on and possibly fall asleep as I did last time. That day the curtain between my stall and one close to me was not quite shut. I could see an older man. He was sleeping. His legs stretched out and his upper body leaned back sunken down in his chair. Even though he was sleeping peacefully he looked worn out and fatigued. His skin was not only pale, but he looked translucent. He was sleeping the whole time I was there. He did not move at all. That is not an image of my future self. I am fighting this.