I am receiving my immunoglobulin IV therapy as I type and blog. Everything has gone well this morning. And so far, I have not gotten sick from it. Thank You, Lord.
Given that it is flu season, I am in a private room today versus the large chemo room. My doctor is trying to keep me from catching the flu or other viruses, thus the room with a different view and a different atmosphere.
My heart grieved this morning. I learned of the death of another patient. We've sat in these chairs together for several years. She was boisterous and eccentric but had a huge heart. Not long ago, after she had received several bad reports, I purchased a book on building our faith and eliminating fear from our lives, and brought it to her. She wept with gratitude. I pray she is dancing on streets of gold today.
In my observations from this tiny, quiet room, I have realized the camaraderie and companionship that is reaped from receiving treatment in the larger room. The encouragement that we offer to each other is absent. Sharing of knowledge and experiences with my cancer companions, traveling the same frightful road, doesn't occur in this one-patient setting. It is quiet. Dreadfully quiet. I am eager to return to the room filled with laughter and not the hum of the furnace and the drip of the IV that I hear in this room with a different view.
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