Heavy, viscous steps. One hundred of them from the car door to the wheelchair rack. Another thirty-seven past the receptionist and into the lobby. Three more, and then your toe taps against the elevator railing, careful not to fall. 

This is a trip I’ve made with you a dozen or more times. For you, it’s a trip to chemotherapy, a trip to save your life; for me, it’s a trip to the waiting room, another day of helpless impotence. 

You are scared out of your mind. Your hands shake, and your breathing is staccato. The diagnosis came out of nowhere. It was a shock to think your life could—Well, I can’t think about that. I can’t.

Light from full, floor-to-ceiling windows fill the waiting room’s narrow space. I squeeze your trembling, bony arm. Those arms, not so long ago, were full and muscular, able to lift my impossibly heavy crock pot from the highest shelf, able to pull me in for a sweet side hug. 

“You need to eat your Wheaties, girl.” You teased. 

A sister once complained to me about her annoying boyfriend, “God, I just hate men. I’d give them up for good if it weren’t for their arms.”

I turn away and walk the length of the windows, afraid you’ll feel the same sick I feel in my stomach. The view from six stories high could be mistaken for something other than downtown Sacramento. I squint and imagine I’m gazing at the rooftops of a quaint neighborhood in Siena, the Mediterranean sun rousing Italian pigeons.

“Buongiorno, little birds.” I whisper. 

A blue-scrubbed, young man emerges from behind a door. He consults a clip board and calls your name. It’s time for another afternoon of pain. 

Your hearing is permanently damaged by the poison that may save you. 

“Hey, Honey.” I bend to face you. “They called you.”

You look up, unaware you’ve been summoned.

Before chemo destroyed the hair follicles in your ears, one of your greatest passions was music. You own the best sound system and appreciate every woofer and bass beat from a wide array of genres. Your shuffle could just as easily play a Gregorian chant as a southern rock twang.

“Huh?” You blink in response. I point to the door that leads to the infusion center. 

The nurse is chipper, as usual. We’ve gotten to know her. She chatters about her kids, the weather, seemingly unaware of how difficult this is for you, her patient. 

And I hate her for it.

Later, at home when I complain to you about her, you’re the one who’s sympathetic. “Ach. She’s just being friendly, trying to distract me.”

Your weight has fallen to an all-time low, making your legs wobbly.

With effort and a loud sigh, you settle into the chemo lounge chair meant to make you feel like you’ve arrived for an afternoon at the nail salon.  

When the nurse returns with the rolling Christmas tree of dangling poison bags, I half expect her to say, “Did you pick out your nail polish color?” 

While she hooks you up, I sit back in a side chair. I pull out a book and open it at the marker. It’s all for show, this pretense of distraction, because it’s impossible to focus my mind on the words. I’ve been stuck on page 116 for three weeks now. I don’t even remember if I like this book.

Defeated, I stand and tell you I’m going out to the waiting room. 

Once again, I look out the tall windows and curse your cancerous cells, silently demanding they shriek in pain as they die once and for all.

It will be a long time before we find out if the deadly cells comply with my demands. In the meantime, I wait. 

-Lynette Blumhardt

Lynette Blumhardt began writing fiction, memoir and creative nonfiction five years ago. Before children took up all of her time, energy, and money, she wrote freelance pieces for Woman’s World, Grit, the Sacramento Bee, and California Game and Fish. Lynette’s work leans toward humor and personal observation.