Years ago, I was in my sister’s living room watching a nature show that featured salmon swimming upstream. In midair, they would circumvent an unrelenting waterfall, as they followed a familiar scent calling them home. Despite the deluge they encountered, they fought, struggled and continued their arduous journey. It fascinated me.

“Can you believe they do this?” I said to my family. I was met with confused incredulity.

“Uh, yeah. Didn’t you know that?”

“Oh, psshhh, yeah, I knew. I just … I just forgot.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know these tenacious swimmers worked against a fast-flowing current all in an effort to spawn. I didn’t know the more they sensed the smell of their birthplace, the more they swam toward it. I didn’t know that once they reached their destination, the effort involved usually killed them. It seemed crazy to me. Idle, yet remarkable. And it was this imagery I thought of the evening after my first chemo treatment.

It was Monday, Oct. 24th, 2019.

“Reporting for duty,” is what I actually said. I immediately cringed with regret. Too much Sandra, too much. 

I was trying so hard to be normal. To tread above the inundating anguish that seemed to be rising with each passing minute. Feeling like I was on the verge of drowning, I gasped for air, and kept thinking, “It’s going to be OK; everything will be OK.”

I just wanted my first session to be over with. Will it hurt? I wondered. I’ve never been one to handle pain with much dignity. My reactions have run the gamut of pathetic whimpers to once punching my best friend’s dashboard due to a pesky bladder infection. And don’t get me started on my laser hair removal. The body-shaped, sweat shadow I would leave behind after each session was alarming.

My port had just been implanted the Friday before, and it was still so sore. The surgeon was unable to embed the catheter under my muscle. So he went through it instead. Like a sewing needle puncturing through a tough piece of fabric, he pushed and tugged. Not being completely anesthetized, I felt each yank, each dig and each heave-and-haul. And so, I feared once the port would be accessed, it would really f-ing hurt.

A nurse called me back, took my vitals and led me into the chemo area. “Sit wherever you like, honey.” I picked a little spot in the corner next to a window. There was woman, Carol, who sat across from me.

Shortly afterward, another patient walked in. She sat next to Carol and immediately commanded the room.

“I like yah shirt,” she said to me. “What does it say? “Live, Love, Mickey?”

“Yeah, my best friend gave it to me for my birthday, but I’ve been too scared to wear it around my sister.” I said. “She might steal it.”

She smiled. “I love Mickey, too. But you know what he won’t do? He won’t flash a peace sign. It’s too, uh, political or somethin’. Can you believe it? Won’t throw a freakin’ peace sign. Eh, whatta ya gonna do.”

Her name was Maura and it was her first day, as well. She had wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and her voice was a combination of a female Rodney Dangerfield and Dot from “A League of Their Own.” I instantly liked her.

A few minutes later, a different nurse approached me.

“I’m Claudia, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” Describing the process in depth, she explained what was about to happen. My blood count would need to be tested. If my white blood cells were within normal range, she would administer the four bags of Chemo: ABVD.

But first, she would need to access my port.

“Yes, it will hurt.” She confirmed. “But I won’t do anything without telling you first. On the count of three I’ll need you to breathe out.”

As Claudia was about to count down, Maura’s eyes were glued to me. “Oh, uh, sawry, but I’m next and ya know, I wanna see what’s waiting for me.”

Claudia continued, “One, two, three.”

I breathed out. “Oh gurrrrl,” I said with overwhelming delight. “That didn’t hurt at all!”

It was a pleasant surprise. And with my blood count coming back as normal, I felt hopeful. What became increasingly disagreeable, however, were the saline flushes in between each bag. I could taste and smell it. An unsavory, metallic sensation that is difficult to erase from my memory. Even now, I’m forced to repress the nausea that begins to brew at just the very thought of it.

But I was making the best of it.

As the two newbies, Maura and I listened attentively to Carol, as she shared with us her own experiences. She spoke about the challenges of eating, homeopathic remedies for canker sores that could sprout from the chemo, and how her hair started to fall out after the second treatment. In fact, once her hair did begin to fall, she mentioned how her grandchildren helped her cut it. Carol was kind and full of smiles.

And Maura, well, she was a born entertainer. She talked about her two teenage boys, who were 13 and 14 years old, and how — having recently been diagnosed with breast cancer — she uses comedy as her defense mechanism. When it was her turn for treatment, she said. “Dig in, Claudia!”

A third woman joined our party. She was older, a bit frailer in demeanor and tenor, but donned a bright lipstick and her cheeks were rosy in hue.

“I love ya hat,” Maura said, breaking the ice.

“Oh, thank you, it’s made of bamboo.” Her name was Ingrid. Having moved to the U.S. from Sweden in the 60s, she had a subtle European accent.

“I wear it all of the time because, well…” She took off her hat to reveal her bare scalp.

She shrugged and continued, “But you know what? It’s really fun when the rain touches your head. Like it’s dancing on your skin.” A former Pan Am flight attendant, Ingrid exuded an air of delicate grace. 

It was easy to sit back and admire these three woman. They were all so different; all representing such varying forms of femininity and strength; and all affected by this terrible disease.

As the day went on, I continued with my bags. One by one, the women left, and a new round of patients came in. But by my fourth bag, I felt disoriented, anxious and very ill.

Nearly 8 hours later, I was depleted and a shell of the person I was that morning. Once I was home, I withdrew into an emotionally distressed cocoon. It’s amazing how the human spirit can range from one extreme mental state to the next, pivoting between positivity and despair in a matter of hours. And with the amount of drugs coursing through my veins, I was heading toward an eventual tailspin. Which is something I realized as soon as my oldest, Julian, started sneezing.

“You are not to be around sick people,” Dr. Yeckes’ words sprang into my mind. “If your kids are sick, you cannot be near them.” 

By the evening, Julian started getting worse, and knowing that I would need to be away from him, hit me harder than the chemo.

That’s when I thought of those resolute salmon.

It was a minor hiccup of the day, but my son being sick felt like a cascading waterfall smacking me in the face. I had spent the last few weeks adjusting to a diagnosis and course of treatment I thought I would never get in my life, that now I was not only navigating through uncharted waters, but against them.

So, I cried. And for the first time, I felt defeated. As if I, too, were fighting a futile fight.

I had never felt depression before. Anxiety? Yes, all the time. But never depression. It was gloomy and grim, but thankfully, also, short lived.

Because as I told BJ, who coincidently hates this fish analogy due to the fate that awaits them, I am not salmon. Sure, I must be steadfast, determined to persevere despite the occasional setback. But once I do reach my end goal, the holy grail of remission, I will be left standing. OK, maybe sitting, but alive with a shit ton to look forward to. This journey won’t derail me. And I know that I must, come hell or high (and very strong) waters, remind myself of that every day.

Since then …

• Both boys ended up with a cold. My sister took Jules and my mom took baby Key. But after five days, they were back home and healthy.
• The week after chemo was far better. My nausea subsided and an appetite of 12 hungry men replaced it.
• Almost immediately, canker sores appeared. But I have received so many good tips from friends on how to treat and mitigate the discomfort. Biotene toothpaste has helped wonders.
• My hair is slowly falling out, but it’s still intact. I followed Carol’s lead and had Julian help my mom cut my hair shorter. In retrospect, not the best idea I’ve ever had. Carol’s grandkids, I believe, are around 10 years old, whereas, Julian is not even 4. I can just picture him saying to another kid, “Hey, it’s OK. I’ve cut my mommy’s hair.”
• On Monday, Nov. 4, I received my second treatment and thus completed a full cycle. It went smoother this time around. I was in and out in approximately four hours.
• My white blood count, however, took a dive. So for four days I had to receive booster shots. I also took Claritin to help with the possible side effects of bone pain, which I’m happy to report never manifested.
• This is not cancer related, but Keanu turned 10 months old on the 7th, and he’s been crawling for more than a month now. Julian is almost done with soccer season and is still no James Rodriguez, but I’m not losing out hope that one day he will be!

As always, life continues. It’s a bit unorthodox for now, but I’m grateful for it. And speaking of gratitude, there isn’t enough praise I can give to you: our family and friends. I’m so humbled by your continued support, care packages, cards, advice and books we have received. I don’t know that I can ever stop thanking you, for it feels like a debt I can never repay. But please know that I’ll never ever forget it.

Until next time.