Tuesday, February 24 --Treatment finally begins
Todd and I get up at 5:30 am so we can drive to UCSF for his appointment at the Infusion Clinic. The kids are still asleep; I leave their lunches on the counter, feed the dog and we are off. We call them when we hit the Bay Bridge to make sure they are all up and getting ready for school. When we arrive at the 5th floor of the Cancer Center, they have no paperwork! Luckily, Todd has the clinical trial coordinator's cell number and they get to work on locating the paperwork. Without it, we can't start.

We hang out in the waiting nook, where I find a basket of cards made by 5th graders. The little sign on the basket reads "Take what you need." Each card has a sweet message, like "Keep strong. You can do this! Get Well! Love, Josh (age 11). On the bulletin board are 2 envelopes. One is full of blank strips of paper. The other has "What we wish people would say and what we wish people WOULDN'T say" written on it. I read the strips of paper in that one. Most of them are notes of thanks to the nurses and staff, but one digs right into my gut. It reads, "Don't say And what did YOU do to deserve this?" Amen to that.

Todd's paperwork has arrived and we meet the infusion nurse, Diane Craig, the same person who treated Glen! We are in a sunny room with 6 gray recliners, with a few extra chairs for visitors. There are 3 other rooms just like this and all are empty at this early hour. The chemo will take about 6 hours. First a big bag of saline, then a bag of steroid anti-nausea drugs, then the cisplatin, which turns out to be a small bag of pale yellow liquid, then another big bag of saline. I spend the time reading and unplugging Todd's IV, as he needs to go to the bathroom about every 15-20 minutes. By 11:00 a.m. every one of the 24 recliners or beds is full. Lots of women with breast cancer, men with who-knows-what. So many people with cancer.

At 1:45 we are done with the chemo so we head out for lunch. Nearby is a Philly Cheesesteak. So surreal sitting in there after the hospital. We walk back in the bright sunshine. It is a beautiful day, except for the cancer. We go down to the basement to the Radiation Department. I wait while Todd goes in, after a bit they call me to come in and take a look. He is on the radiation table with a red foam cushion under his knees and a white plastic mesh mask over his head and neck. I take 2 photos, avoiding the remote dangling from the ceiling. The tech and I go in the next room and he starts the radiation. I see Todd on the monitor and the tech explains that he can hear Todd as well, so if he needs anything, the machine can be stopped. I go back to the waiting room and after about 20 minutes Todd comes out, his cheeks indented with a faint waffle pattern from the mask.

That night he is surprised by the nausea and headache -- just intermittant enough to make sleep difficult. He also feels wired from the steroids, so it is a restless night.