Within ten minutes of taking Atavan, you were conked out on the industrial blue recliner being fed chemo through your port. I was on my netbook messaging Aunt Janiene and sending email to Aunt Sue and Morgan about the morning events: an hour of hydration, followed by three bags of chemo, a full house of patients in various states of chemo treatment, and you reading the book, Pride and Prejudice, Katie gave you.
One of our favorite nurses smiled at me as she checked to see why the sweet little old lady's monitor was beeping -- the one with ovarian cancer who sat directly across the room from us. On her way back, the nurse said. "You must like zebras." I wore my favorite zebra tank top along with a couple of zebra bands. My iPod, Kindle, and netbook were also clad in zebra skins. I had my zebra shopping bag to carry my zebra loot and a bevy of your snacks - organic chips, gummy worms, almonds, and granola bars.
I nodded and said. "I guess I do."
"Me too." The nurse said and proceeded to show me a zebra scarf used as doo-rag for cancer patients who had lost their hair.
"Nice." You said with half opened eyes. The three of us laughed and made small talk about your zebra story until another patient's monitor called the nurse away. You tried to sleep, but couldn't because one of the patients was snoring really loud. You cocked your head in the direction of the snoring culprit and made your eyes go real big. We laughed, then made lunch plans to get you soup at Paneras.
When I got to the Expedition to start our chow run, I just sat in the driver's seat. I took a deep breath in, let it out, took another deep breath in, and let it out until serenity swept through me. With each breath I posted a snapshot in my memory and a knowing of unconditional love.
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