So far, this cancer thing seems to have been a breeze for Wilma.

So far, she made it past the emotional roller coaster of the diagnosis and realized that she’s not dying anytime soon.

So far, she told me she hadn’t felt different from the moment before she got the news.

… And then today she started chemo.  Go say a prayer.  Go, right now.  I’ll wait.

The likeness is striking.

The likeness is striking.

My wife took her to the hospital this morning very early.  I went to work.  After I got home this afternoon I got the joy of taking my daughter to her ballet class.  This felt like a little bit of normalcy for both of us.  After we got home, I grabbed my toothbrush; a change of clothes; and my eyeglasses, contact case, and solution.  I then headed over to Wilma’s house.  For her part, Wilma had felt so good immediately after leaving the hospital that she and my wife went to a movie!  But on the drive home, the nausea set in.  OK, go say another prayer.  Thank you.  So my job tonight is to do my best Clara Maass impression and let a tsetse fly bite my ass.  Wait, no.  I suppose my job is not to imitate Nurse Maass that closely.  Besides, with all the tonic water I’ve consumed in my lifetime I’d bet malaria is not a malady I shall soon (or ever) suffer.  Nonetheless, I am here and I am “fixing to take care of my patient” as they say in Texas.

The evening, so far, has gone remarkably unremarkably.  Around 8:00 (CDT) I switched on a show on National Geographic.  It was something about what would happen if the world’s oceans were drained.  The graphics were cool but the narrator’s voice was so soothing that by 8:30 both Wilma and I were groggily waking up to realize that we had been knocked unconscious by it.  I quickly switched the channel and we watched the news for a bit.  All in all, she got some more quality sleep while I spent an hour looking up random things on Wikipedia. Did you know that the Mount Washington neighborhood of Pittsburgh was rated the best urban view in America?  Neither did I.  I’ll be sure to remember that when I never visit.  At 10PM, the patient rose from her recliner to take a pill and retire to her bedroom for night prayers.  Yes, even as run down as she is, dear Wilma is in quiet solitude praying for you and for me.  What am I doing?  Writing a nonsensical story.  OK.  She wins.  Stay tuned.


2 responses to “Chemo-Schmeemo

  1. God bless Wilma!

  2. Tim ,I can send you my very own Clara Maass nurse’s cap! As a graduate of the now defunct school of nursing, I do have one!

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