Reporting live from the Chemo Room, folks, where the IV poles sway and the recliners are almost comfortable. It’s 10:30 a.m., and this joint is hopping — every single chair taken. That’s right, the chemo lounge is standing-room-only (well, reclining-room-only). I haven’t seen this kind of turnout in eleven visits. Clearly, today’s the day everyone got the “Let’s poison cancer!” memo.
To my far right sits a young lady with all her hair. All of it. Long, shiny, shampoo-commercial hair. Naturally, I had to investigate (journalistic integrity, people). Turns out she’s here for an iron infusion. Bless her. May her iron rise and her hair remain glorious.
Meanwhile, I stepped away to the restroom and came back to find the man to my immediate right completely covered by a blanket. Like, entirely. Head completely covered, a human burrito of concern. And you know in this room, we don’t talk about dead people — it’s bad mojo. So yes, I stared until I saw his chest rise and fall. Whew. Crisis averted. No grim reaper sightings today.
Now, on my left sits a woman who clearly did not get the chemo memo about looking half-dead. She looks fabulous. Black shiny hair (real — I checked, again, reporter skills), perfect makeup, and an outfit that screams “Cougar Christmas Chic”: black sweater, leopard-print pants, and matching boots. I want to be her when I grow up.
Across the room, two elderly gentlemen (okay fine, probably my age, damn it) are having the time of their lives chatting about everything under the sun. I’ve seen both of them here before, alone and quiet, but today? They’re laughing, talking about old times. (Sadly, I remembered a lot of it myself.) But it’s nice. It feels like a tiny bit of joy snuck in with the saline drip.
Somebody’s in Mama’s old chair today. I haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe she’s cured. God, I hope she’s cured!
And in the far corner? A little gaggle of women talking about Christmas crafts they’ve made. Glitter, glue guns, and garland galore. I wish I could join that table, but a reporter’s got to stay on her beat.
Fast-forward to 2:30 p.m. The chemo crowd has thinned out, leaving just me and the two gents — still solving the world’s problems and condemning the evils of some drug or another. The room hums quietly now. I can see the sunshine pouring through the window, a soft reminder that there’s life happening outside these IV poles.
It’s been a good day in the chemo room.
No deaths. Some laughs. A little envy. A little sunshine.
And me — still here, still reporting.
Chemo Chronicles: signing off until next drip.
Breaking News
The gentlemen just told their age. I am AT LEAST 10 years younger. Boy, I feel even better now!
Second Battle, Same Me 
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