Napping. Required.

Yesterday was chemo #9 of 12 (13 of 16). An uneventful day...except I was, in retrospect, quite crabby.

The "infusion suite" was very quiet when we arrived. Hardly any patients in the suite. Cold, cold. Choosing my recliner (back against the wall so I have a good view of the surrounding area). Making the trip to the bathroom (I don't want to have to get up and walk around pushing an I.V. pole in front of me, so I go to the bathroom early in an attempt to prevent that necessity). Then, because of the apparent presence of air conditioning, I need two, yes TWO, hot blankets. But I chose bad blankets. Because as I sat in my recliner and tucked myself in, the blankets were only warm! not hot. drats. Don to the rescue -- he brought me a third hot blanket, and that one was perfect. Put the hot blanket directly on me, and then tuck it in with the other two blankets on top.

So this is where my upset starts to come in. The first drugs that are "infused" are anti-histamines. They make me drowsy. I am dozing off, and things are good. However, business is starting to pick up in the suite, and more patients are coming in. LOUD patients. Patients who, I think, have never been instructed in the use of their "inside voice".

And why is it that the old men who come in feel it their duty to flirt with the nurses? Loudly? And what are their wives thinking as they sit and have to observe such behavior? And the one nurse who is loud as well -- and so often replies to the flirting inappropriately. I mean, really. No one attempting to kill cancer cells needs to hear sexual innuendo. Please, guys, I am trying to rest here. Even Don crunching ice cubes is loud in my ears.

But, no resting. Because the guffaws and chortling seem to go on and on. Oh my goodness. Irritation.

Obvious irritation, I am afraid.

Then, with no napping in sight, I start to listen.

I hear one older gentleman talking to Bubba (remember Bubba? He's the son bringing his Momma to treatment who I surmise lives at home and doesn't/can't work). I hear the older man tell Bubba that the doctor said that he had 10 weeks to live. "And that was in January. Those doctors don't know a damn thing."

10 weeks to live? And I'm irritated because I can't nap?

I had written yesterday, in response to my sister Sally asking how chemo went: "uneventful...except I should have taken ear plugs with me. One nurse is very loud and crass, and add to her a few patients who do not know the meaning of "inside voice". Makes napping a tad bit difficult. And one needs to nap while getting chemo drugs. It's in the breast cancer manual. Required."

And, in my last post, "Touched", I had written that I want my first responses to be compassion, understanding, love, laughter.

There is no "breast cancer manual" -- except the one I have written in my head. But I know better. Because my head is not always right.

Because the manual I have written on my heart makes it clear that napping is not required.

Compassion, understanding, love, and laughter are.

I flunk.