day 1.

I start chemotherapy today.

In fact, I am here now, hooked up and waiting as a I type this.

This is a surreal moment, yet everything now is more real. This is really happening again to me. I am here. I have cancer again. This is in fact happening. This is my life for the next year or so.

Everything though seems almost flipped and unexpected. Even though I have had cancer twice and ghosts of memories keep resurrecting themselves, yet everything is also different.

Nationwide Children’s is different, with its new buildings, its new crisp, clean colors and designs. My rooms are different. My procedure seems different. I’m almost returing to home, like a college student, but have come back to find that my parents have rearranged my room, rearranged their routine, and I expected to come home to what I knew was normal and home. Of course, this is not normal, cancer is not normal, chemotherapy is not normal and hosptials are not homes. But over the past 10 years—half of my life—they have become a part of my normal. And today, here, this is not normal.

I start chemotherapy today.

In stating that, I’m agreeing to poison myself. I’m agreeing and vowing to be committed and connected to drugs like
Vincristine,
Irininotecan,
and Temozolomide.

Each name distinct.
Each drug unique.
Each drug having a personality of their own.

Their names sound surreal and otherworldly. They should not be here, they should be distant. And yet they are so close, within me, sliding, snaking throughout my bloodstreams, touching and tapping organs and tissues and cells as they float by.

Here is to the marriage of drug and body.
L’chaim, to good health, for yours and mine.

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