Someone To Hold Onto

It will be just a little prick, that’s great, honey “take a deep breath and relax.” Good, see, it is not that painful. That's it; you're doing great! I promise it will be over in one moment, now exhale. I felt the release of the "pink cocktail" entering the port in my chest, and the sensation of peppermint icebreakers moved through my veins. I was escorted into the IV room to receive my infusion. The nurse asked if anyone would drive me home, and I politely said I would drive myself.

Internally, a thought slid its way into my consciousness, and I tried to suppress it immediately but could not. Why was I alone? As I looked around the giant IV room, other patients had family members sitting alongside them; oh yes, I remembered I was alone because I was strong, resilient, and could handle this. No, that was not true. I was alone because my husband could not handle this scenario. On our wedding day, "Till death do us part" was not in our marital vows. My husband, the father of my children, had checked out emotionally and eventually checked out physically. I decided not to meditate on those memories because I knew rehashing would drain my precious energy. I rationalized that sometimes things are just too hard, and the fear of losing someone overcomes their ability to be there for you.

At that moment, I felt very isolated, sitting in the cold grey chair looking out the window. I wallowed in self-pity, watching happy families on their way to do whatever happy families do together. I needed someone or something to hold onto, and I said a little prayer into the sterile air with this one request. After three hours of sitting, I listened to "Lucille ball" reruns playing in the background because studies have shown that laughter helps you get through chemo. I had made it through the first day, and my two-year Herceptin clinical trial had officially begun.

The first infusion was finally over, and I felt okay. The nurse told me that the feeling of euphoria was likely drug-induced and would decrease as the day progressed. At that moment, I was just happy to leave the cold atmosphere and head outside into the warm sunshine. I paid for parking and drove away feeling quite accomplished for doing absolutely nothing except making it through my first chemotherapy treatment. Then, my mind shifted to good things. I would soon see my two beautiful daughters, Brittany, seven. Sydnie, who had just turned four, and my precious little dog Allie.

Our favorite game was ice cream man. I was vanilla, Sydnie was chocolate, Brittany was strawberry, and Allie was topping. We would line up together and pretend a giant ice cream scoop was coming down to pick us up, so we each had to roll away quickly. Allie loved this game because she had the opportunity to be held by all three of us. I knew my children would be the incentive to keep me motivated. Their love gave me the resilience I would need to not get off the cancer conveyer belt. I could see their sweet faces peering through the front door as I approached home. I also saw Allie, our little doggy wagging her tail and jumping up and down, with the girls all anticipating my return.

I was feeling fine while driving the babysitter home. My Allie jumped in the front seat and sat in Chelsea's lap, sticking her nose through the cracked window. After dropping Chelsea off that night, I pulled into a Shell station to get gas. I was starting to feel a slight bit of nauseousness as I lifted the gas handle to fill my tank. Waves of gas fumes permeated the air, and I felt faintness was very close. I needed to get home immediately.

I was so relieved that my neighbor Melissa had invited the girls to spend the night. I was unsure how to handle the first night of chemotherapy, and I started to feel my energy levels deteriorating quickly.

Once home, my little dog Allie ran up the pet stairs and sat on the edge of the bed. I recalled how Allie was the runt of the liter. A tiny morsel compared to her brothers and sisters, who towered over her, each seeking attention. All the puppies begged with little yelps of gratitude every time my husband and I gave a glance in their direction. I noticed little Allie immediately, she was small in stature, and I knew Allie and I shared kindred spirits. She was a beige and white ball of fur. My hands quickly swooped down and rescued her from the chaos of her siblings. Little Allie became part of our little family.

My thoughts became cloudy; deep sorrow and loneliness settled over me as I thought about what I once had. A family? What family? Wait, there was a family at one time not too long ago. Health, happiness, birthday parties, date nights, and movies: a mom, a dad, two little girls, and a dog. Happy families like the ones I saw today driving down the expressway on their way to happy places. My head began to throb, and the thoughts quickly evaporated as the chasm of nausea increased.

My body became limp as it started to succumb to the effects of the chemo. Like no other, a sinking feeling arose as if every cell in my body decided to shut down simultaneously. I could feel the hot taste of bile rising from my stomach and desperately tried not to vomit but could not control the retched heaves. The smell was permeating every air molecule, a stench like none I had ever experienced. I could not see clearly and could not fully comprehend what was happening.

Nevertheless, I knew I had to make it to my bed to lie down before passing out. I could see the small frame of my Allie, a tiny beacon of light in the bedroom. I moved in her direction and collapsed onto the bed. As I curled into a fetal position, she surrounded me and snuggled in as close she could. I reached across and felt the warmth of her body and the softness of her fur next to my skin. I was not alone. As I surrendered myself within the comfort of this tiny creature, I remembered the prayer I sent up to ask God for someone or something to hold onto. I realized my prayer had already been answered as I drifted off to sleep. I had a warm body next to me that was faithful and caring and gave me something to hold onto during one of my darkest moments.

I spent the next two years going through the clinical trial, and when I would return home from my appointments, she never left my side. I lost my hair over those two years, and her beautiful light beige fur turned completely gray. Allie lived to the ripe old age of 18. She passed away several years ago. I felt she was an angel sent to help me get through the difficult time of being alone during my first treatment and a constant companion through all the subsequent treatments. Her presence provided a sense of solidity that I desperately needed for shalom. I miss her with all my heart and know we will be together again one day.