Chemo Tuesdays

Tuesday is quickly turning into one of my favorite days of the week.  Not because of any Domino’s pizza deals or even the half-off movie ticket prices on Tuesdays at the cinema.  Nope.  I love Tuesdays because that’s when my aunt comes in to town for her chemotherapy treatments.

I know.  Chemotherapy, like cancer, s-u-c-k-s.  It makes my aunt sick and sleepy and initially caused her to lose her hair.  But, in her true fashion, she died the peach fuzz on her head hot pink.  And now she has managed to make her Tuesday poisoning appointments into one of my favorite weekly activities because I get the spend the whole afternoon with the lovely ladies that are are my aunt and my mother.  I love them both by themselves, but the sum of them together is different/funnier/crazier than the individual parts.  Indeed, Chemo Tuesdays renew my appreciation for living close to my family.

It all starts when I pick my mom up from her elementary school at 2:45, where she works as an ESL teacher and instructional aide.  On the drive over to the Indy hospital where we meet my aunt for her appointments, I ask my mom about her day.  She explains the triumphs and the difficulties of teaching foreign-born children, all while trying her darndest to avoid stereotyping whole ethnicities based on the academic performances of a few ten-year olds: “Ji-eun always come to class prepared, but Mahdad won’t even stay in his seat!”

As we walk into the cancer treatment center we smile and nod hello to the familiar faces of the staff nurses.  We find Aunt by the Keurig machine brewing her very own cup of “butter toffee coffee.”  I like the way that sounds.  She knows I don’t drink coffee so she generously offers to make me a cup of chai tea.  I say, “No, thanks.  I always thought chai tea tasted like Christmas.  I love Christmas, but not in my mouth.”  

We all settle down into our respective seats - Aunt in her plush recliner, finished in a warm fabric that’s the same color as her sweet coffee.  My mom and I sit facing her, and we chat casually with the nurses about the easiest of current conversation topics: the Super Bowl last Sunday.  After affirming their Indy-born allegiance to the Giants (read: Manning’s) against the Patriots, the three of us are tacitly surprised that none of the nurses have heard of the Puppy Bowl, whose popularity is a difficult thing to explain: “Well, there are these puppies playing football on a mini-field, and you can see them through the water bowl cam.  And then there’s kitty half-time...”  

In the meantime, two other nurses are getting my aunt’s chemo cocktail ready.  After checking her blood work and prepping the port embedded in her chest, they hook up a network of plastic chutes that funnel into a single tube that drips liquid into her body.  I stare, as always, amazed at the insignificance of the little plastic bag that contains the chemo drugs.  I always expect it to be filled with radioactive green goop and marked with fiery red and black words of warning, yet the clear bag of anti-cancer drugs looks as innocuous as the saline.  But I know those are powerful chemicals in there, and I say a little prayer of thanks for the medicine and for its effectiveness.  

Once the bag is empty and the nurses detach my aunt from the web of plastic tubes, we leave a few business cards at the nurses desk for our next destination: a dark and cozy den in Indy where we get our feet rubbed by Chinese men.

Seriously.  Aunt started going to a Chinese massage parlour called “Foot Fitness” initially to help with neuropathy in her toes, which can be a side-effect of chemotherapy.  But with the $25/hour pricetag, the soothing music, and firm-but-soft hands, the three of us are hooked.  Lucky me, this week my foot-rubber had the upper body build of Daniel Dae Kim.

Yum.  

Normally the masseurs conclude by rubbing my back.  After interweaving his fingers in mine (normal for the hand massage) and throwing my arm against the back of the cushy massage chair (new to me), I was kind of hoping we’d conclude with a little make-out session in the dark.  No such luck.  When he finished pushing on my lower back he said, “Okay, lady, you done.”  

Leaving with my hair-tousled from a head massage and looking like I did just have a make-out session, we head across the street to our third destination: Costco.  I smooth out my hair in the cold parking lot as my aunt and mother tear through their purses looking for their Costco membership cards.  My mom has the audacity to make fun of the sound of papers ruffling in her sister’s purse.  I don’t even think to complain about the wait because A. The two of them rummaging through their purses makes me laugh and B. because I know they’re about to spoil me rotten with fun Costco food purchases.

Suffice it to say that my mom and aunt are not so great at passing up a good bargain.  So walking past the Costco bouncer into the bulk store is kind of like walking into a candy shop with my husband: I know we’re not leaving empty handed.

“Let’s get this 24oz jar of olive muffaletta spread.”

“Annie, can you eat this?  No, it has milk protein in it. But this one’s gluten free!”
“My friend told me Ensure shakes tastes like chocolate metal.”
“Where are the fiber tablets?  I see Calcium supplements, but where’s the Fiber One?”  This search for powdered ruffage inevitable ends with the lone call of “HUCKLE BUCKLE BEANSTALK!” - my mom found them.

We leave with a probably-too-large receipt (I blame the 144 pack of Sam Adams my mom bought for my dad), but also a few six-packs of Glide dental floss on sale for $10 each - holla!

In our final Chemo Tuesday indulgence, we eat dinner at McAlister’s Deli before Aunt drives home. In celebration of our Costco purchase, Mom decides to get the New Orleans Muffaletta Sandwich.  I order a baked potato with veggies and veggie chili on top, no cheese.  Aunt orders the yang to my yin - a bacon spud with sour cream and regular chili.

“Your total is is $30.57.” The cashier says.
“Who has 57 cents?!” challenges my mom.
“I do!”
I pull out my wallet to help.  But in the ultimate head-start, Mom empties the contents of her change-purse directly onto the deli counter.  She gets the two quarters, a nickel, and two pennies before I can even reach for my first quarter.  
“You win, Mommy.” I say. “And by ‘win,’ I mean you ‘lose’ because you have to pay.”

“Have you ladies ever been to the Foot Rub place across the street?” My aunt asks the cashier and the young girl filling up our iced teas.
“No, I’ve never been in there.”
“I’ll give you one of their business cards.  I have a few in my purse somewhere.”
“I’ll look in mine, too.  Who can find one first!?” says my mom.  So begins another three-minute paper-shuffle to find the Foot Fitness cards in their respective purses.
“Man, you guys compete for everything, don’t you?”  The cashier remarks.  
“Found one!”  My Aunt wins again.  She’s 2 and 0 for finding cards in her purse.  I’m impressed.

Once we sit down to dinner, the conversation comes easily, like it always should with family.  At one point, they both start tearing up as my mom recounts a story she watched on ESPN about the Baltimore Colts Marching Band: “The football team left in their Mayflower trucks in the middle of the night in whatever year that was, but the marching band showed up the next day at the stadium with their instruments in hand, all ready to play!”  They may both be tearing up, but I smile at their likeness.

Once the plates are cleared, the bulk purchases divided (who really needs two jars of Grey Poupon, after all?), the Foot Rub cards distributed, and the chemo drugs are at work inside my aunt’s body, it’s time for us all to drive home.  

Teddy greets me at the door with a look of excitement and exhaustion at wondering where I’ve been all day.  “I missed you, Teddy, but it’s Chemo Tuesday and I had so much fun.” I say.  “I hope someday soon I can start calling it Foot-Rub Tuesday.”