chemo on christmas

My father, who is in a clinical trial for treatment of a high-grade malignant glioma, generally receives chemotherapy treatment on Tuesdays. However, because christmas fell on a Tuesday this year, the treatment was scheduled for the day following and because I was around minicb and I made our first trip to the "infusion center." For those that are fortunate enough to not know, the infusion center is where you go to spend the day having chemicals pumped into your veins in hope that they might extricate your body of a seemingly infallible disease. My father receives treatment in a prestigious university medical center--the kind of place that folks with the class privilege to fly around the country in search of new treatments come to (this class privilege also affords better health outcomes, but that's another post...). The infusion center is nice enough; patients receive treatments in private rooms with a recliner, tv, phone and I believe ethernet connection as well. There is stale coffee and boxed hospital lunches available for family members and for patients that are actually hungry.

Shortly after my dad happily introduced me and minicb to the nurses who had no doubt already heard about us (I am assuming they didn't anticipate a 20something mom with a septum ring and a kindergartener singing David Bowie), we were sent back out to the car to fetch some Sudokos and matches for my dad. During the days I spent wandering around the hospital when my father had his surgery last spring, I was often mistaken for a medical student. This time, a zealous five year old garnered sympathy from passerby. As we navigated the maze of the hospital, minicb pointed to every single patient, asking what was wrong with them: Why does that guy have a cast was he in a car accident what is on that old lady's face do you have a boo boo in your head like my grandpa does?

By the time I returned to the infusion center, my father was receiving a hep lock and a large neon green biohazard bucket bearing the title "chemo max" had appeared at his side. And I had decided on my latest idea for a non-profit (not to be confused with my joint project diversity consulting firm "a jew and two homos with latin sounding last names," my bar/yarn shop/bike repair shop/vibrator store/book store or my pro dom business). I decided this: the tv and ethernet connection are not enough. They should fucking treat these folks getting chemo like fucking royalty. They should be getting free ipods, gourmet chocolate fucking cake (for those that can actually eat), chair massages, indemand movies, etc. In the walk back from the parking garage I decided to start as a 503(c) and pilot the project at a local hospital in hopes that it would catch on elsewhere. I could get local businesses to donate stuff-- I mean, come on, donating goods and services to help chemo patients feel better about their day is like the best PR initiative ever. I thought, at least when people dread their treatment and all that it means, symbolizes and entails, hey, at least there's a massage and an ipod in the deal.


After I took minicb to the science museum and met up with my very good friend in the country from her work eradicating the guinea worm in the southern Sudan, we picked up my dad and headed back to his house. He was cranky, as usual, but not sick from the drugs like you see in the movies. I told him of my great new plan, which he quickly shot down. I had expected jubilation.


We arrived at his house and he ate a huge plate of lasagna; I started drinking. And thinking about maybe spending more time thinking about my bar/yarn shop/bike repair shop/vibrator store/book store