I thought I’d take a break from being wordless today as so many people have asked how Will’s chemo is going and thought it might appear a bit too melancholy sans words. Yesterday he finished up a brutal five-day all-day infusion cycle and is doing pretty well. He’s not himself, that’s for sure, but he’s doing better than I’d pictured he’d be doing. The past week has been a blur of driving between our apartment and the hospital four times a day (that’s 30 minutes each way) so I could bring him there and get him settled, then go home and try to work. Some days were more productive than others. As he grew weaker, it became harder to leave him all day, so this weekend I eased up and stayed with him more, despite my looming workload. You start to mentally prioritize your life and decide what can be postponed (jewelry update, sadly) and what is the most important (being there for Will). But he’s back at home now so I can focus a bit more on work between playing nurse, and we’re both happy to only have to see that hospital twice in the next two weeks. I think I’ve memorized every single street on Beverly Blvd (my preferred route, trust me I’ve tried them all) between Vermont and San Vicente.
But I have to say that while our hearts are heavy at times, when we stare at the calendar and think about how many more cycles are left and silently calculate how much sicker he may get, the infusion rooms in the cancer ward provide immense perspective. And the nurses remind us when they can tell our faces hang low. You are lucky. We saw a toddler on one of the first days and it broke me in two. You see people who look like obvious shells of themselves. But you also see kindness between people like nowhere else, and people who are saying goodbye because they’re done, they’re better now. And in no time flat, that will be us too. Not everyone can say that. Speed bump, just a speed bump.