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A friend, Tassia, is completing chemotherapy for breast cancer and her husband has been writing about the treatments. He writes such beautiful prose that I thought I would share his letter of Tassia's final chemo session 
. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did. Tassia is Greek by way of Montreal. Names and places changed to keep everyone anonymous 
Greetings to all, you ethereal beings in corporeal form, so faithful, loyal and true. Too long has passed since I last wrote of the trials and triumphs of our Dauntless Tassia. But now I bear news too good not to share.
Wednesday, at long last, she shipped the last bitter dose of chemo. Yay! The long and weary slog through that dank poisonous leg of her journey now is over! Now, just everyday living will eventually purge the toxin from her body. With it, we so fervently hope, will pass into oblivion any remaining blighted cells. Does it surprise any that she completed this phase with her usual combination of grace and toughness, overcoming all obstacles and setbacks?
The day started inauspiciously. Expecting our usual quick getaway, we leapt into my brand new ultra sporty special edition high-performance Ford Focus ST, only to find a baffling problem; my sporty 6-speed manual transmission would not shift into any sporty gear requiring the selector to be pushed forward. First, third, fifth and reverse? All out. Quickly and decisively calling a “no go,” we hopped into my truck (usually used to tow and haul) and carried on. The car mystery is now quite literally in the hands of Ford Special Vehicle Team engineers in Detroit, as the dealer service manager today reported that his people were stumped, and they called in the home office slide rule jockeys.
Upon arrival at Georgetown University Hospital, the infusion center waiting area was full, another portent of choppy water. As we waited to be called for the blood test (upon which results hung the oncologist’s decision whether she could take the last draught of hemlock), the time until her appointment with said hard to see oncologist ticked away. Slowly, the room cleared, as each unfortunate soul walked down the bright circular hallway to his or her date with a plastic bag and a needle. Finally, they took her labs, and with a few minutes to spare, we made it upstairs to meet with the white coats. All was pronounced excellent, and Tassia accepted from her hellish bartender of the past four months the first of many congratulations for getting through it and bearing up with a “great attitude,” and a somewhat sterile, but hearty, hug.
Then, with the chemo orders cut, back downstairs to the infusion center, where we arrived just in the nick of her appointment time, again to a full house. That time came and went, and an hour and change more before they called her name, as usual, butchered almost beyond audible recognition. Lest you think me a martinet, delays are no joke with the Taxol. After pre-meds, and an hour waiting time, and then a 3 hour infusion of the real sh!t, the whole process takes nearly five hours. She finally got called. More indifferent luck. All the stalls with nice window views were occupied, and all that was available was an inner booth right next to the restroom door. And since all they do to all the people all the livelong day is pump fluids into them, it gets used a lot. So our patient, understandably impatient to have it over with, was a tad grumpy. We got her settled, and then waited some more. But Madge and Adjoua, both very proficient and compassionate and Tassia’s favorite nurses, were on duty, a plus. Madge popped in, looking harried, told Tassia her pre-meds had arrived (they come from the pharmacy on a squat little R2D2-like robot) and apologized, explaining that three patients in the full house were in the throes of severe allergic reactions, and needed careful attention.
To her credit, Tassia reminded both of us that our bumps in the road were small and inconsequential compared to what others in neighboring cells had to get through. And so she pulled out her special pink bag containing (and itself one) of wondrous diverse magic talismans given to her by those who love her – a statute of Ganesh, a rosary carried on a diplomatic flight from the new Pope’s investiture(blessed by the Vicar of Christ himself), a mint 1923 silver dollar (given at sea to a shipmate in need of luck), a mala necklace, each exotic semi-precious gem bead with its own healing property, and a horsehead from the Acropolis museum store. Chips on multiple spiritual/religious numbers. All these charms she arranged on the armrest of her Lazy Boy, and in time, in came Madge, in her cheery but businesslike way, to hook up and start the bug juice flowing. And on wore the day, bag after bag, marked by the periodic whir and squish of the IV pump and the dull drone of the cacophonic blended conversation of 23 bays of infusees and their sentinels. Bag after bag. First the Benadryl (which, blessedly, sends our girl into drowsyland), then the steroids, then an hour wait with saline, and finally the big bladder of the Taxol itself, infused over a long three hours. Whir. Squish. Whir. Squish.
But this day was different from all the other long and wearing chemo days. This was the last time. Madge has a ritual. Once upon a time, she had a very athletic leukemia patient who finished a grueling chemo course. She was so ecstatic, that she told Madge she felt like doing cartwheels. Being the consummate exponent of the healing arts she is, Madge enjoined that by a dopy person as against sound medical advice, but allowed that she would skip with her down and out the center hall. So now, when every patient who is able finishes her sessions, Madge locks arms, and skips her happy charge out. My heart brimmed over with joy as my girl, a bit weary and bleary, but flashing that smile I know and love so well, tripped lightly down the hall. At last, it was done.
And awaiting us when we got home was a rare and wonderful celebration. Our dear and very talented fine artist friend, Marcia, built Tassia a rocket. We were going to meet in the dog park, and launch it, with its payload of Tassia’s last infusion wristband, into the cosmos, to mark the happy occasion. The rocket was a work of precious art; dripping with symbolic meaning. The fuselage was painted in brilliant Mediterranean blue, with a Greek cross emblazoned in deep red, a contrasting earthy nosecone, the cargo compartment transparent plexi. Each of the six fins bore the ancient Greek key device, and each of the four playing card suits, with diamonds and hearts repeated. Affixed to the tube was a golden heart locket.
And so we gathered in the park in the gloaming light of the end of a long day, with neighbors, family, friends, dogs, and random strangers who happened to be there. Tassia held the launch trigger console, and would have the honors. After obliterating Tassia’s personal data with a sharpie (we’re romantic but not stupid), we rolled up and inserted into the cargo bay the bracelet. Then, after a Cape Kennedy countdown, and a dramatically delayed ignition, the slim little missile streaked into the air, quickly flashing up, with a sound like a hundred scimitars simultaneously slicing silk. Higher and higher into the twilight it rose, a thin smoke trail snaking up behind, score pairs of eyes tracking it until it nearly disappeared. It reached apogee, and began to fall straight down, a slim, indistinct blue line, happily, into the gap in the trees that marked the rectangular ball field. Then, we saw a fuzzy red blob, indicating the successful deployment of the parachute. As the little chute billowed, the slight breeze caught the descending craft, sending it drifting inexorably into the inaccessible upper regions of the urban forest that canopies Takoma Park. Multiple squads of recovery teams were deployed to search the neighborhood, to no avail.
Maybe it’s fitting that such a precious object, crafted in and infused with love and meaning, would be cast to the heavens without hesitation, and accepted into the bosom of the unknown. It will be the first of three; the second to be launched when the drain from Tassia’s reconstruction surgery is pulled, and the last when she finishes radiation. With these rockets will go our hopes and dreams for a long, healthy, happy and fulfilling life after this ordeal.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Ahead lay reconstructive surgery, radiation and hormone suppression therapies. But, we are told, the most difficult part of the road is now behind our warrior queen. Now, she will truly start to gain back the things that we temporarily lost, and do the things that have been set aside. Now, you and we can bask in a moment of pure joy and humble thanksgiving. Tassia’s slow walk through the fire has tempered her spirit and annealed her will into a tough, resilient alloy. After traversing this noxious gauntlet, and now more than ever, we believe that she will face and conquer the next challenges, too.
To all of you, what can I say that has not been said before, as many ways as I can conceive, to convey what a shining beacon of hope and strength all of your unwavering love and support has been? If the words I have scrawled have helped you to understand, or you have taken any comfort or solace from them, then please know that they all fail pitifully to express the depths of our gratitude.
. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did. Tassia is Greek by way of Montreal. Names and places changed to keep everyone anonymous Greetings to all, you ethereal beings in corporeal form, so faithful, loyal and true. Too long has passed since I last wrote of the trials and triumphs of our Dauntless Tassia. But now I bear news too good not to share.
Wednesday, at long last, she shipped the last bitter dose of chemo. Yay! The long and weary slog through that dank poisonous leg of her journey now is over! Now, just everyday living will eventually purge the toxin from her body. With it, we so fervently hope, will pass into oblivion any remaining blighted cells. Does it surprise any that she completed this phase with her usual combination of grace and toughness, overcoming all obstacles and setbacks?
The day started inauspiciously. Expecting our usual quick getaway, we leapt into my brand new ultra sporty special edition high-performance Ford Focus ST, only to find a baffling problem; my sporty 6-speed manual transmission would not shift into any sporty gear requiring the selector to be pushed forward. First, third, fifth and reverse? All out. Quickly and decisively calling a “no go,” we hopped into my truck (usually used to tow and haul) and carried on. The car mystery is now quite literally in the hands of Ford Special Vehicle Team engineers in Detroit, as the dealer service manager today reported that his people were stumped, and they called in the home office slide rule jockeys.
Upon arrival at Georgetown University Hospital, the infusion center waiting area was full, another portent of choppy water. As we waited to be called for the blood test (upon which results hung the oncologist’s decision whether she could take the last draught of hemlock), the time until her appointment with said hard to see oncologist ticked away. Slowly, the room cleared, as each unfortunate soul walked down the bright circular hallway to his or her date with a plastic bag and a needle. Finally, they took her labs, and with a few minutes to spare, we made it upstairs to meet with the white coats. All was pronounced excellent, and Tassia accepted from her hellish bartender of the past four months the first of many congratulations for getting through it and bearing up with a “great attitude,” and a somewhat sterile, but hearty, hug.
Then, with the chemo orders cut, back downstairs to the infusion center, where we arrived just in the nick of her appointment time, again to a full house. That time came and went, and an hour and change more before they called her name, as usual, butchered almost beyond audible recognition. Lest you think me a martinet, delays are no joke with the Taxol. After pre-meds, and an hour waiting time, and then a 3 hour infusion of the real sh!t, the whole process takes nearly five hours. She finally got called. More indifferent luck. All the stalls with nice window views were occupied, and all that was available was an inner booth right next to the restroom door. And since all they do to all the people all the livelong day is pump fluids into them, it gets used a lot. So our patient, understandably impatient to have it over with, was a tad grumpy. We got her settled, and then waited some more. But Madge and Adjoua, both very proficient and compassionate and Tassia’s favorite nurses, were on duty, a plus. Madge popped in, looking harried, told Tassia her pre-meds had arrived (they come from the pharmacy on a squat little R2D2-like robot) and apologized, explaining that three patients in the full house were in the throes of severe allergic reactions, and needed careful attention.
To her credit, Tassia reminded both of us that our bumps in the road were small and inconsequential compared to what others in neighboring cells had to get through. And so she pulled out her special pink bag containing (and itself one) of wondrous diverse magic talismans given to her by those who love her – a statute of Ganesh, a rosary carried on a diplomatic flight from the new Pope’s investiture(blessed by the Vicar of Christ himself), a mint 1923 silver dollar (given at sea to a shipmate in need of luck), a mala necklace, each exotic semi-precious gem bead with its own healing property, and a horsehead from the Acropolis museum store. Chips on multiple spiritual/religious numbers. All these charms she arranged on the armrest of her Lazy Boy, and in time, in came Madge, in her cheery but businesslike way, to hook up and start the bug juice flowing. And on wore the day, bag after bag, marked by the periodic whir and squish of the IV pump and the dull drone of the cacophonic blended conversation of 23 bays of infusees and their sentinels. Bag after bag. First the Benadryl (which, blessedly, sends our girl into drowsyland), then the steroids, then an hour wait with saline, and finally the big bladder of the Taxol itself, infused over a long three hours. Whir. Squish. Whir. Squish.
But this day was different from all the other long and wearing chemo days. This was the last time. Madge has a ritual. Once upon a time, she had a very athletic leukemia patient who finished a grueling chemo course. She was so ecstatic, that she told Madge she felt like doing cartwheels. Being the consummate exponent of the healing arts she is, Madge enjoined that by a dopy person as against sound medical advice, but allowed that she would skip with her down and out the center hall. So now, when every patient who is able finishes her sessions, Madge locks arms, and skips her happy charge out. My heart brimmed over with joy as my girl, a bit weary and bleary, but flashing that smile I know and love so well, tripped lightly down the hall. At last, it was done.
And awaiting us when we got home was a rare and wonderful celebration. Our dear and very talented fine artist friend, Marcia, built Tassia a rocket. We were going to meet in the dog park, and launch it, with its payload of Tassia’s last infusion wristband, into the cosmos, to mark the happy occasion. The rocket was a work of precious art; dripping with symbolic meaning. The fuselage was painted in brilliant Mediterranean blue, with a Greek cross emblazoned in deep red, a contrasting earthy nosecone, the cargo compartment transparent plexi. Each of the six fins bore the ancient Greek key device, and each of the four playing card suits, with diamonds and hearts repeated. Affixed to the tube was a golden heart locket.
And so we gathered in the park in the gloaming light of the end of a long day, with neighbors, family, friends, dogs, and random strangers who happened to be there. Tassia held the launch trigger console, and would have the honors. After obliterating Tassia’s personal data with a sharpie (we’re romantic but not stupid), we rolled up and inserted into the cargo bay the bracelet. Then, after a Cape Kennedy countdown, and a dramatically delayed ignition, the slim little missile streaked into the air, quickly flashing up, with a sound like a hundred scimitars simultaneously slicing silk. Higher and higher into the twilight it rose, a thin smoke trail snaking up behind, score pairs of eyes tracking it until it nearly disappeared. It reached apogee, and began to fall straight down, a slim, indistinct blue line, happily, into the gap in the trees that marked the rectangular ball field. Then, we saw a fuzzy red blob, indicating the successful deployment of the parachute. As the little chute billowed, the slight breeze caught the descending craft, sending it drifting inexorably into the inaccessible upper regions of the urban forest that canopies Takoma Park. Multiple squads of recovery teams were deployed to search the neighborhood, to no avail.
Maybe it’s fitting that such a precious object, crafted in and infused with love and meaning, would be cast to the heavens without hesitation, and accepted into the bosom of the unknown. It will be the first of three; the second to be launched when the drain from Tassia’s reconstruction surgery is pulled, and the last when she finishes radiation. With these rockets will go our hopes and dreams for a long, healthy, happy and fulfilling life after this ordeal.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Ahead lay reconstructive surgery, radiation and hormone suppression therapies. But, we are told, the most difficult part of the road is now behind our warrior queen. Now, she will truly start to gain back the things that we temporarily lost, and do the things that have been set aside. Now, you and we can bask in a moment of pure joy and humble thanksgiving. Tassia’s slow walk through the fire has tempered her spirit and annealed her will into a tough, resilient alloy. After traversing this noxious gauntlet, and now more than ever, we believe that she will face and conquer the next challenges, too.
To all of you, what can I say that has not been said before, as many ways as I can conceive, to convey what a shining beacon of hope and strength all of your unwavering love and support has been? If the words I have scrawled have helped you to understand, or you have taken any comfort or solace from them, then please know that they all fail pitifully to express the depths of our gratitude.
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