basement of the hospital to a clinic where they administered the chemotherapy.
Jake was infused with the chemo at nine in the morning. The first time Jake looked helpless, as if he were surrendering himself. The two drugs most likely to cause nausea would kick in around seven p.m., then again about midnight. At six in the evening I would give Jake anti-nausea and sleeping pills. He would fall asleep quickly, wake up at eight or nine, vomit three times over the course of an hour, then feel relief for several hours.
Jake went back to work and looked fine. We wondered about the cumulative effect of chemotherapy but the only thing we felt truly fearful about at this point was whether one of the kids’ friends would expose Jake to chicken pox which he never had as a child. Neither Chloe nor Ben had ever had it, and if Jake were exposed to it while his immune system compromised, he could die of complications.
After several treatments, Jake ran a high fever for days on end and was unable to swallow. The chemo had acted against not only the fast-growing cancer cells but also the fast growing cells of the lining of his esophagus. On a Sunday night around nine o’clock, the doctor finally wanted us to meet him in the Emergency Room. We left the kids with my mother who was staying with us.
The waiting room looked filled with people needing attention of every imaginable sort. Surrounded by so many sick or injured people and by the busy staff, I felt anonymous and abandoned. We were led into a small examining room where, over the course of the next few hours, we were to find out that the chemotherapy had wiped out Jake’s immune system and he needed to be admitted to the hospital. He had no white blood cells to protect his body against infection. I started to cry. But Jake never said a word. The more he hurt, the more he battened down the hatches and braced himself for the coming storm. There would be no talking that night, just whatever comfort I provided simply by being there.
The noises of the Hartford Emergency Room buzzed around us. Not far from Jake, a man in his sixties who had been brought in with chest pains lay on a stretcher. Around midnight, while I stood near Jake’s side, this man died. His wife became hysterical.
This was about all I could stand. I wanted to go home, get into my warm bed on this cold night and pretend none of this was happening. I didn’t want to witness this woman’s heartbreak, knowing well it could be me one day. Life was slipping completely out of my control.
Finally, around one in the morning, Jake was taken up to a room where he quickly fell asleep. Sitting in the chair next to his bed, I raged at God, at fate, at whatever caused Jake to suffer so much. I wanted to be with my children and have the kind of normal life my friends were having. I wanted their problems.
Watching Jake sleep in the hospital bed tormented me. He had already lost ten pounds and a lot of his hair. At five in the morning I left the hospital and headed home to see the kids before school. In the car, I screamed at God at the top of my lungs, “You’d better lay off Jake. This is it, he’s suffered enough!”
That week with Jake in the hospital seemed endless. When I was with him I wanted to be home with the kids, when I was with the kids I wanted to be with Jake. But Jake’s white count slowly returned to normal. He said he was fearful of the next round of chemo and rightly so as he lost more and more of his energy, and all of his hair.
Each time we walked from Henry’s office into the bowels of the hospital, Jake looked weaker. He shuffled along the long walk and looked as gray as the walls we passed. And then on June 3, Jake received his last treatment. We were euphoric. We were promised a cure and we expected one. The pea-sized lump on Jakes’ shoulder had melted with the first treatment, and there had been no evidence of tumor during subsequent treatments.
Soon Jake was working full time again and we were
Jake was infused with the chemo at nine in the morning. The first time Jake looked helpless, as if he were surrendering himself. The two drugs most likely to cause nausea would kick in around seven p.m., then again about midnight. At six in the evening I would give Jake anti-nausea and sleeping pills. He would fall asleep quickly, wake up at eight or nine, vomit three times over the course of an hour, then feel relief for several hours.
Jake went back to work and looked fine. We wondered about the cumulative effect of chemotherapy but the only thing we felt truly fearful about at this point was whether one of the kids’ friends would expose Jake to chicken pox which he never had as a child. Neither Chloe nor Ben had ever had it, and if Jake were exposed to it while his immune system compromised, he could die of complications.
After several treatments, Jake ran a high fever for days on end and was unable to swallow. The chemo had acted against not only the fast-growing cancer cells but also the fast growing cells of the lining of his esophagus. On a Sunday night around nine o’clock, the doctor finally wanted us to meet him in the Emergency Room. We left the kids with my mother who was staying with us.
The waiting room looked filled with people needing attention of every imaginable sort. Surrounded by so many sick or injured people and by the busy staff, I felt anonymous and abandoned. We were led into a small examining room where, over the course of the next few hours, we were to find out that the chemotherapy had wiped out Jake’s immune system and he needed to be admitted to the hospital. He had no white blood cells to protect his body against infection. I started to cry. But Jake never said a word. The more he hurt, the more he battened down the hatches and braced himself for the coming storm. There would be no talking that night, just whatever comfort I provided simply by being there.
The noises of the Hartford Emergency Room buzzed around us. Not far from Jake, a man in his sixties who had been brought in with chest pains lay on a stretcher. Around midnight, while I stood near Jake’s side, this man died. His wife became hysterical.
This was about all I could stand. I wanted to go home, get into my warm bed on this cold night and pretend none of this was happening. I didn’t want to witness this woman’s heartbreak, knowing well it could be me one day. Life was slipping completely out of my control.
Finally, around one in the morning, Jake was taken up to a room where he quickly fell asleep. Sitting in the chair next to his bed, I raged at God, at fate, at whatever caused Jake to suffer so much. I wanted to be with my children and have the kind of normal life my friends were having. I wanted their problems.
Watching Jake sleep in the hospital bed tormented me. He had already lost ten pounds and a lot of his hair. At five in the morning I left the hospital and headed home to see the kids before school. In the car, I screamed at God at the top of my lungs, “You’d better lay off Jake. This is it, he’s suffered enough!”
That week with Jake in the hospital seemed endless. When I was with him I wanted to be home with the kids, when I was with the kids I wanted to be with Jake. But Jake’s white count slowly returned to normal. He said he was fearful of the next round of chemo and rightly so as he lost more and more of his energy, and all of his hair.
Each time we walked from Henry’s office into the bowels of the hospital, Jake looked weaker. He shuffled along the long walk and looked as gray as the walls we passed. And then on June 3, Jake received his last treatment. We were euphoric. We were promised a cure and we expected one. The pea-sized lump on Jakes’ shoulder had melted with the first treatment, and there had been no evidence of tumor during subsequent treatments.
Soon Jake was working full time again and we were
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