Infusion 16

My neutrophils had remained at 1,100! so it was definite: I was going to receive my final infusion. Number 16 (or number 15 if you consider that I skipped over unlucky 13). Regardless, I was in the infusion room a lot. 

Jason was with me for this one. It was our moment, the end of phase one, the most labor-intensive phase of this breast cancer treatment. We brought some pink gerber daisies in Mason jars decorated with gold ribbons, and I handed them to the receptionists and nurses.

I sat in the infusion chair, unfurled my bundle of blankets, received my Benadryl and other pre-meds and got hooked up to my final bag of the poisonous swill. I wasn’t sure how Jase and I would react to this infusion—I figured we might hug and cry when it was over. It had been five very long months. 148 days. But I promptly and unceremoniously passed out. 

After what felt like five minutes, I woke up to see a shriveled bag nearly emptied and Jason working on his laptop, fingers clicking on the keyboard.

“I slept through it???” I said.

After the nurse de-accessed my port, we were free to go. I was tired. Jason was exhausted. A couple of the nurses congratulated us before we trudged out the double doors. And that was it. Finished. Chemotherapy ended the same way it began—with little fanfare and a strong need to leave the infusion room.

People have asked what it feels like to get an infusion. It’s simple. Go to your grocery store. Find the bleach and grab a jug. A gallon or smaller-sized jug, it doesn’t really matter. 

Now chug it.