Pre-Loss
April 1, 2008
A time of denial, confusion and disorganization. Shock, resentment, depression and acceptance.
First chemotherapy
The ride to Ottawa was nice and smooth and the weatherman’s predictions were correct, for once: sunny and no threat of snow that day. "Great", I thought, "It’s looking good for the trip back home too''. Even though the road is dry and safe, I felt shaky and wary. Louise was silent and stared straight ahead with a look of concern that said it all.
Numbed at the expectation of what’s to come, we barely talked for the hour it took us to arrive at the hospital. Our destination, the eight floor of the Ottawa General Hospital is where the ovarian cancer treatment department was located, and we were not all that keen to get there. We did arrive eventually though, and, after parking the car, we entered directly into the cancer centre and walked nervously on to the elevators.
The elevator bell sounded its usual ding and the door opened up giving way to a series of long corridors filled with stretchers, linen carts, disembodied voices talking over intercoms and the usual hospital apparatuses. Reluctantly walking out of the elevator, we headed off towards the nurse’s station neighbouring the dreaded room. Ah! That mysterious room, I remember it well now as I passed it so many times in my previous visits to the hospital during Louise’s stay after the surgery. Every time I walked in front of it, I felt it projected a kind of mystifying aura that somehow made me weak in the knees. It freaked me out, to be more precise, but at the same time, it also triggered an extreme sense of curiosity that I could not ignore. What is going on in this last resort for the hopeful walking dead? I asked myself every time I dared to give the room a furtive look? I could only imagine the worst, and over and over again, the scary scene of people lying down on, beds helplessly wired up to convoluted plastic tubes, getting their veins pumped up full of burning chemicals came to mind. How awful it must feel for them to patiently sit for hours in this torture room desperately hanging on to their last stretch of life hoping for a miracle? The mere idea of the whole scenario was intolerable and with hurried steps, I would walk away from the place thinking, “Not for now,” an empty brush off if I ever made one, as I knew darn well that 'now' would come too soon...
