Somewhere in a New York City recording studio, a team of professionals is recording the audio version of Taking Midway. I receive periodic updates, mostly about pronunciations, though I'm on the other side of the country. I'm spending the morning doom scrolling in the chemo ward, wondering if I should wander over to the cafeteria for a bold cup of coffee or just drink the ordinary stuff from the machine. The wifi isn't so good, so I use my phone as a hotspot. In typing that last sentence I learned that hot and spot make one word instead of two.
You'd be amazed at how quickly the chemo ward becomes routine. The first time is pretty shocking and more than a little sad. My therapist says the trauma of that visit still exists no matter how much I pretend it's not there. Now it's just a normal Monday.
I got up at 5 then headed to the track to coach morning practice. My dreams were chaotic and I woke up wondering their meaning. There was a drizzle as I opened the track shack. Wrote the workout on the white board in black marker, then took my hood off and let the mist hit my face and wake me up as I waited for the team. It's Monday and we raced Saturday, so I resisted the urge to make this morning our typical "Take Your Medicine Monday," which can be very demanding indeed. We had a nice team chat. Then a little tempo, a little speed, and a cooldown before sending them off to the showers.
Got home at 7:15. Calene was waiting, chemo ward cozy blanket in hand. Didn't hit any traffic on the 5. Pulled into the UCI parking garage at 7:45, just after change of shift, making it easier to find a spot. The chemo process begins with blood and labs. Then into the infusion room with its comfortable chairs and IV drips. I have a window seat. The nurse gets approval from the doctor to begin the chemo. Name and birthdate check. Now we just sit and wait for the clear bags of fluid to drain down into the port.
So routine. Sometimes I doze but more often I work on the new book. Callie and I chat, a word or two about White Lotus and Greenland. She reaches over and holds out her phone to show me a funny reel. I lament my busted NCAA bracket. We talk about getting breakfast afterward. If it all takes too long we'll just go straight home because the dogs need to go outside. Passage of time is marked by the slow chemo drip. No clocks in here. Wouldn't matter if there were. Absolutely no one is in a hurry.
Sometimes when I talk in such matter-of-fact terms about chemo day, friends give me a slightly horrified look, as if the topic should only be spoken in whispers. I catch myself and realize it's not so regular to them and change the subject. Not everyone understands how routine this all feels. Just another Take Your Medicine Monday.