A very odd day. Although I’ve had cancer a long time, until yesterday I’d never been in an infusion center. Chemotherapy comes last in prostate cancer protocols.

Yesterday I stepped into a large room filled with large, lounging type chairs. Chairs had an i.v. pole next to them if a patient occupied it. Glass windows showed a blue sunny Colorado sky. A few folks sat next to the occupied chairs, holding a hand, knitting.

“I’m Melissa and I’ll be your nurse today.” Melissa was young, blonde, with an air of experience. “Pick any open chair you like.”

I chose a chair against the far wall. Isolated. Melissa inserted a butterfly i.v. in my left arm and connected me to a bag of saline solution preloaded with four aliquots of potassium. One aliquot requires an hour to deliver, drip by drip. Four aliquots, four hours. At 11:40 am the dripping began. It would not end until just past 4 pm.

Most of the chemo and other infusion patients stayed no longer than forty-five minutes, some far shorter than that. The infusion room filled and emptied several times over my four hours. Potassium has to be given slowly or it can affect your heart. Potassium chloride has a spot in many lethal injections. It stops the heart.

As the minutes and hours dripped away, I witnessed the treatment of so many cancer patients. Each patient embedded in a family, in a friendship network, their journey affecting others. The infusion signifies one step in the struggle to overcome, outwit an inner assassin.

When the saline bag finally emptied and my electronic controller gave its finished bleat, I raised my arm, “Winner, winner, chick dinner.” Happy to have finished the four hours and twenty minutes

Melissa unhooked me and wished Mary and me well. A sweet lady.