The Art of War...

We arrive at 160 East 53rd Street in New York. We smile and say hello to the kind workers at the information desk. Elevator ride to the fourth floor. Say hello and check in at the desk. Fill out forms for perscriptions if needed. Then:
Take a seat and wait.
"Samuel, Andrew!"
Name is called and it's time to give some blood. Blood pressure, temperature, and pulse rate.

"Do you have a mediport?"
"Yes."
"Which arm has the best veins?"
"Most like to use the left."
The veins in my right arm silently weep as they slink behind skin and muscle. The phlebologist investigates the veins while she puts a tourniquet around my left bicep. She lines up her weapons: alcohol preperation wipe, gauze, bandage, needle equipped with a catheter, four viles to be filled with type A+ blood. The technician steadily pierces the skin on the inside of the elbow just to the right of the scar tissue that has built up over the last two and a half years. A slight wiggle and the blood pours forth, methodically filling up each vile in succession. She pulls out the needle (it always hurts more coming out for some reason) places the gauze over the small poke and bandages that bad boy up. Step on the scale. I can't read kilograms... And I'm done.

Take a seat and wait...
And wait...
The doctor's assistant walks right up to me to take me into the back to see the doctor. Her name is Jane. Sometimes it's Jessica. They know me well enough to not have to call out my name. Now I'm in the room sitting on the protective medical paper over the patient chair. Now it's time to:
Take a seat and wait...
And wait...
And wait...
Wait...
Wait.

Knocking at the door can either mean the doctor has arrived, or the attending doctor has arrived. It's the doctor. We exchange pleasantries and the doctor takes a nonchalant position leaning agaisnt the counter. I like my doctor a great deal. Not only is he extremely knowledgeable, but he is able to read his patients well. He knows that he can say things to me shooting straight from the hip and I like that. Good news or bad, I need to hear it straight and to the point. Nice little talk, maybe a little poking and prodding and examining.
Deep Breath...
And another...
And again...
And again...
And one more time.
And it's back out to the waiting room.
To wait...
And wait...
Wait...
Wait...
Waaaiiiiiiiiiiit.
"Samuel, Andrew!"

Called again and this time for the knock out stuff. Sit in the chair. "Would you like a blanket?"
I bring my own. It's not particularly cold at first, but with all the intravenous fluids going in, it cools down the blood. Nurse comes in and asks the questions. Same questions everytime. Now it's time for another needle stick.
The 'Huber' needle is a thicker gauged needle that is curved down slightly. It is pushed into the mediport that is embedded in my upper right chest. This stick is far more painful than the arm stick. The curved needle slices through the thick, protective skin of the chest and falls into it's place within the mediport. Usually. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to have the nurse just miss the void that exists within the mediport. Sometimes they miss altogether and other times they hit the surrounding lining,either way the medicine cannot get into the blood stream. When they miss, though, they don't take the needle out. They only pull it out a little and try and reposition it while the needle is still inside of you. This is not fun. Other times you are lucky enough to be pricked more than once by the curved needle.

Needle is in the skin now. A little saline for a while to hydrate the body. Then the anti-nausea intravenous medicine.
Sit back, relax, and enjoy the next two hours. It's chemo time! I'm oddly composed as I watch the fluid in the bag race towards the tip of the needle lodged in my chest. I've always felt a relative calm in the chemo chair. A relaxed acceptance that the moment of calamity is upon me and it cannot be outrun. So slowly it comes and yet so consistently. I feel it the first time my heartbeat circulates the chemical-containing blood through my heart. It flutters in the beginning. The anti-nausea kicks in at this point. It's Benadryl. I started to figure it out. They drug you so you can't feel the initial effects of the treatment until later. My mind is stubborn, though. I stay awake as long as possible. The darkness takes over slowly. The clouds roll over the horizon. My mind grows tired, my eyes glazed, my speech erratic.
Fading...
Fading...
Faded...
Out.
The outside sleeps, but the inside fires off nuerological impulses as constant as ever. I can hear bits of conversations happening outside of me, and the war for dominance wages within me. It's the Battle of Bull Run on the inside and the outside peacefully sleeps with barely a rustle of the body. The Yankee troops of the normal cell tissue stages a battle. Massively out numbered and predicted to lose a quick war to the superior Confederacy. The Rebels of the dissenting cancer cells are highly skilled and highly trained soldiers prepared for swift victory over the Yankees. The Yanks win a surprising victory to start off. But much blood is spilled before the war ends. This, however, is the the microcosmic civil war. One body battling against itself. A single union divided by unavoidable issues. The dream wages on in my mind.
It is a lucid dream and I think I dream while I am awake.
It is a dream that does not end when I open my eyes.
It is a dream that does not end on the drive home.
It is a dream that does not end the next day.
It is a dream that has not ended.
My civil war rages and when my Yankee army is depleted and wounded and the superior killing machines of the Rebel South close in, I will recall Abraham Lincoln's words:
"The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just."

Let's have a party at Appomatox Court House when this war ends. Who's bringing chips?