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Seven years ago today, I completed my eighth and final round of round of chemotherapy at @AlbanyMed. I was 20 at the time, and spent a combined 60 nights in the hospital that summer and fall. (1/x)
Each round lasted a week. I was on the pediatric floor — for some reason, they fought and won the right to care for this big kid. I was tethered to an IV pumping chemo 24/7, so I could only leave my room to walk around the wing. (2/x)
If I promised not to run off, the nurses would let me go a little further: through the double doors and down a long corridor that ended with a big window overlooking the city. (3/x)
I often sat at that window — reading, listening to music, watching people on the street. Wishing I was anyone else doing anything else, anywhere else. Convinced I’d be trapped there forever. (4/x)
Yet on the last day of every round as they prepared my discharge, I could finally go downstairs and out into a little courtyard, where I could feel the breeze on my skin and the sun on my face and remember what I was fighting for. (5/x)
COVID sucks, and lately it is hard not to feel like I am back at that window, pressing my forehead against the glass. But today is not one of those days. Today is a good day.
Here’s to more good days ahead.
Here’s to more good days ahead.
