“Would you be interested in an art project today?”
The woman approached my recliner just as the infusion bag emptied and the final flush began to drip. Her name tag identified her as a volunteer. She carried a clear tote filled with tiny craft supplies: small cotton balls, glitter, ribbon. She held up the finished example, a clear plastic heart, painted and strung with ribbon, filled with cotton and sparkle to resemble falling snow.
“You’re supposed to make something like this,” she said.
I glanced around the infusion room. Most of the other patients, many in probably their sixties, looked tired and worn, focused only on leaving their chairs as soon as they were allowed. I imagined paints and crafts felt far from anyone’s mind.
“Sure,” I said.
I didn’t want her volunteer efforts to go unnoticed. She had shown up with intention, hoping to make the infusion center feel a little warmer, a little more human. A gesture like that deserved to be met with kindness.
“What colors would you like?” she asked.
“Blue and gold.”
“And the ribbon?”
“Orange.” I said.
As the nurse stepped in to remove my IV, I kindly asked the volunteer to hand the supplies to my husband. He had been beside me the entire time, working through a cryptic crossword puzzle, watching me closely through the haze of Benadryl I had worried about all week.
Today went well. It was week two, a lighter day. I received only one drug along with the pre-meds. The Benadryl dose was lowered after last week’s reaction that had knocked me out cold. This time, I felt okay.
No reaction to the main chemo drug again.
I was grateful.
Journaling was Recommended 