I always overpack for a trip, especially if I’m traveling by car. How should I know if I’ll want to wear the blue sweater or the olive jacket in a few days? Will I need a skirt? How about an umbrella? Shouldn’t there be some snacks, just in case? And what about something to amuse myself if I’m not the only driver? How many books will I read while I’m gone? Don’t forget the journal.

So on Groundhog Day, 2007, when my friend Kathy arrived to drive me to my first chemo treatment (a long Friday, to be followed by a short Friday, and then a Friday off to make one round), I had packed for the day in my usual fashion. My new red lunchbox held my lunch and some nibbles. I planned to reread all the Little House books, which a friend called comfort food for the mind, so there was a copy of Little House in the Big Woods. A couple of magazines and a word puzzle book in case I needed a change of mental scenery. A lap quilt that dear women at church had made for me—bear claw pattern, reminding me that I was strong and could do this. I also took some hand quilting—at that point, I’d not faced the fact that as much as I like playing with color and fabric and enjoy the company of the quilters, I was not a quilter.

During the weeks before treatment began, I’d also packed events to strengthen my spirit against the onslaught of poison I would receive. Wangari Maathi, the first African woman to receive the Nobel Prize—awarded for her founding of the Green Belt Movement—spoke at a nearby university the week before my first treatment. I wanted to be in the presence of this woman, who had survived imprisonment and persecution to become a member of Kenya’s Parliament.

Maathi was magnificent. Speaking of the enormous need to preserve the environment and the forces against our doing so, she exhorted us, “Do not be overwhelmed.” I took those words as good advice for people about to enter chemotherapy.

Acupuncture had been recommended as a way to prevent nausea. Although the idea of needles didn’t thrill me, I was ready to do whatever was necessary to manage chemo’s side effects. Accordingly, I found a wonderful woman who suggested that I have my first treatment before beginning chemo, rather than after.

When we met, I explained that February had long been my personal dark month because of the events that had occurred in it: scoliosis surgery, my father’s death, a not unexpected but still painful breakup, the whole Valentine’s Day thing. I wasn’t surprised that between both unavoidable and self-created delays, chemo would begin in February. Krista startled me by responding, “This is your chance to rewrite February.” The treatment didn’t hurt, which was a relief. I made plans to return before each chemo round.

I made plans to sing my way through the coming months. I was a member of a local chorale that prepared and sang an ambitious classical work once a year with the symphony. When the notice about rehearsals—that spring, we were performing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—arrived, I let the director know of my cancer and treatment. I was uncertain that I would have enough stamina to perform; the concert was scheduled near the end of my treatments. His reply touched me deeply:

            We will need a gaggle of each voice part and music can be so therapeutic. Why don’t you consider trying as long as you can make the rehearsals and if it becomes a problem for you just let me know and you will be excused. Having your voice in the mix at the beginning will be helpful and if we make it to the end and you can still cope with the schedule it would be a shame not to use you. I am not trying to push you in to something if you don’t want to do it. But if you think you still want to, let’s not decide until we know it won’t work.

His words would become a guideline for me: try it, and don’t decide against something until we know it won’t work.

That morning, I had taken my pricey ($1300 without insurance, $90 with—tell me our health care system isn’t broken) anti-nausea drug at 8:00 a.m. as instructed, an hour before chemo was to begin. And I’d eaten breakfast, because almost nothing affects my appetite, and taking drugs on an empty stomach was a bad idea.

Kathy arrived promptly, with a giant dark chocolate bar to get me through the first day. Even though we had been told that guests weren’t welcome and had seen with our own eyes that the chemo room simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate visitors, she was loath to leave me. She parked the car after dropping me off at the door and came into the chemo room, where no guest chairs were provided. The nurse put up with it for a bit, then got her out of the way.

No one can tell you what chemo will be like, and it’s different for everyone. I walked in and dropped my luggage by the recliner. The other three chairs were already filled; Linda had begun their drips. I swallowed the small cup of pills waiting at the bedside table, a cocktail designed to mitigate chemo’s worst effects.

Linda and another nurse checked and rechecked the drugs (delivered fresh each morning!) to make sure they were correct before beginning. I would have a line in my arm and one into my abdominal port. More drugs were mixed into the fluids, including a megadose of Benadryl. It was supposed to send me off to lala land; instead, it gave me a sledgehammer headache, right between my eyes. One of the blessings of having Linda for my chemo nurse was that she’d been trained in therapeutic touch. She calmed my headache, holding and stroking my hand.

However, Linda couldn’t insert the needle into the cup of the port. She feared the port had twisted upside down and called the doctor in. He disagreed, but it took several tries before the needle entered the port. (Newer ports are designed to make access more clear, with raised bumps around the center of the ring.) I didn’t understand the point of a port—I still had to get stuck with a needle. I didn’t realize that by the end of chemo, many people’s veins are almost impossible to use.

I didn’t know what chemo would “feel” like. It didn’t hurt, but my face grew all tingly. When I reported this to Linda, fearing what it might portend, she asked if my palms itched, which would have signaled a reaction. When I told her no, she said, “Oh, honey, that’s just nerves.” So I tried deep breaths and distractions, envying my companions, who each seemed able to let the Benadryl take them elsewhere.

Chemo patients are advised to drink lots of water during and after treatment, to flush the chemo. Getting fluids all day and drinking water meant many trips to the bathroom, a multi-step process I would never again take for granted. Alert Linda that I was going to need help. Remove the lap quilt, my security blanket. Stand while she unplugged the IV pole and arranged multiple cords, so that we could have a three-legged sack race to the bathroom only a few feet away. By the time I’d finished in there, the cords were snarled around the pole, as if I’d been walking an unruly dog and gotten the leash wrapped around my ankles. Open the door so that Linda could untangle my cords, laughing at the mess I’d made of them, and walk me back to my chair. Then she’d plug in the IV pole again, and I’d settle in for the next round of boredom, holding my bladder as long as I could before repeating the entire routine.

I also had packed a few of the 4 x 6 index cards I was using to chart my way on this trip I didn’t want to take. The hours dragged on; other patients on different protocols came and went. Later that day I wrote this card:

Chemo on the long day is like a car trip, being the powerless kid in the back seat.

“Are we there yet?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“How much longer?”

I am the last one here and I am mightily bored from a day of doing nothing, sitting in this recliner, trying to amuse myself with reading and quilting, trying to nap, failing to do any of it.

               Other than being bloated and tired, then dealing with insomnia on Friday night, I felt no ill effects from the first treatment. I went to church as always on Sunday, needing the support of the gathered community.

            On Monday after my treatment, I wrote another index card. I am trying to prove something to somebody, just as surely as if I had a 24/7 Webcam on me. Exhibit: cancer patient at home. Today I did up a mound of dishes and a load of laundry, changed the sheets, made sure I ate, and completed a lesson from work that I’ve not touched since before chemo, all in the context of calls and e-mails from dear friends checking in. I am determined to “sail right through this” I tell people, and so I am minimizing my tiredness, even though I did let myself have two naps today. I am ignoring the twinges of pain and discomfort. I think I’m afraid that if I begin now, after one chemo treatment, I will be a complete waste long before the treatments end. I am trying to pretend that being medically poisoned doesn’t affect me.