I drove myself to my first chemo appointment. These were peak COVID days so no guests were allowed in or out of the cancer center. Oncology department patients only, of which I was one.
I wore black jeans with white stitching, a t-shirt my cousin bought me that said “feeling very IDGAF-ish today” (because lets be real, I was), big hoops, gold chains, a twist out, and Living Legend MAC lipstick.
It was May 14th, 2020.
On March 7th, 2024, I drove myself to the hospital for my shot appointment. I cannot tell you how many times I have been injected in my lower abdomen (one appointment on the left, the next appointment on the right, then back to the left, then right again).
This time, this March, on the left.
My house is close to the hospital so I always leave a bit late. It was sunny outside and even though I hate it, I have become used to this routine so I was relatively sunny inside.
Driving over roads full of pot holes and filled patches that will open up the next time the sun disappears again, I parked in patient parking. There are signs that say they will tow you if you’re not a patient, but I don’t have a sticker so I wonder how they would know that someone didn’t belong here…
I unfortunately do.
They used to check our temperature and ask if we’d had exposure to or symptoms of COVID-19. Now, few people wear masks. Ready to get back to normal I guess. As if anything is or can ever be normal in a cancer treatment center.
The girls at the front desk know me. “Hi, yes, I’m here for an injection and labs.”
”What’s your name?”
“Hickmon.”
“Oh your picture is so beautiful. Insurance card?”
“Thank you. Here you go.”
“Okay, you’re all checked in. Have a seat and someone will be with you shortly.”
I take the tracker I am required to clip onto my clothing and head for the couch right across from the desk. The tracker is so the nurses can find me. So they know I am here to be treated. I have to go teach a pottery workshop at Michigan shortly after this so I am dressed in my studio uniform—burnt red t-shirt, mauve purple joggers, my pottery chore jacket, a twist out, mascara, brown lined lips with gloss, gold chains, and gold hoops.
My phone service is so shitty in the hospital and I don’t really trust the WiFi but I tried to mindlessly scroll or text anyway.
This time, this March, they called me back quick.
“Gabrielle?”
I gather my things and am guided to the side of the ward where I usually get my blood drawn. My injection is being done here today because the chemo bays are full.
When I got to the hospital, I got my temperature taken. "Do you have a fever, cough, or any difficulty breathing? Have you been in contact with anyone with COVID-19 recently?”
Well technically, me. My mother and I got COVID after my egg retrieval. I got the flu too somehow and I wasn’t even immunocompromised then. That pushed my chemo start date back. I had to be clear for a month before my oncologist would give the go ahead for me to begin. You know, let my immune system build itself back up just to obliterate it again.
“No and no.”
“Okay. Go ahead to the desk to check-in.”
”Hi, I’m here for an infusion. Gabrielle Hickmon.”
”Oh your picture is so pretty. Insurance card?”
“Thank you. Here you go.”
“We’ve got you all checked in. Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
I take the tracker I am required to clip onto my clothing and head for the couch right across from the desk. The tracker is so the nurses can find me. So they know I am here to be treated.
My phone service is so shitty in the hospital and I don’t really trust the WiFi but I am receiving lots of texts from my family—call me when you get situated, let me know when to FaceTime you, you look good in the t-shirt, I love you cuzzo, you got this.
“Gabrielle?”
I gather my things and follow a nurse to a chemo bay. Multiple nurses then come to get my treatment started. I have two bags to go through. It will take a few hours—4.5 to be exact.
Only one nurse gives me my injections. I used to ask for someone to hold my hand when I first started getting them, but that was every month and a different shot with a much bigger needle and a pellet that got forcibly pushed inside me.
This is a liquid that burns, but the needle is smaller and if I ice for long enough and the nurse pinches my skin hard enough, I can get through it without a hand to squeeze.
The nurses know me so they have the ice ready.
“Here you go,” she says as she hands me a ziplock bag full of ice.
“Which side today?”
“Uh, let me check. Looks like the left.”
”Okay.” I place the baggy on my lower left abdomen in the spot where low waist jeans hit while she begins to take my vitals.
“Blood pressure is 129 over 63, pulse is 95 and temp is 97.3. Those are great numbers. Tell me your name and date of birth.”
I tell her and she starts to mix the medicine.
“I’ll just get this ready while you continue to ice and then you let me know when you’re ready.”
Ready? That’s a funny word.
I am never ready, but I always want to get it over with. I am looking for my skin, the skin in the spot where low waist jeans hit to feel cold to the touch and look red, well pink. I am Black after all. Ten minutes go by. I worry I am wasting her time.
“I’m ready now.”
She squeezes and inserts the needle.
I close my eyes and try to remember to breathe in and out. In and out.
It’s only maybe a minute but the liquid burns as it enters my abdomen and even though this needle is smaller than when I first started doing this, I seem to bleed more now.
She puts a band-aid on while my eyes are still closed and I put the baggy back on the spot. Icing before and after seems to help.
“Can I get you anything? You don’t have to rush to leave.”
“Well, what do you have?”
“Sandwiches, juice, milk, cheese sticks, Mac and cheese.”
“Do you have cranberry juice?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take that and a Mac and cheese.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
While one nurse goes and prepares my snack, another is telling me where the bathrooms are and is getting my IV set up because I elected to do chemo directly into my veins instead of through a port. A port would definitely leave a scar and I had enough of those already. (Of course chemo, radiation, injections, and a non-cancer related surgery would add more scars to my body—on my arms, my neck, and my abdomen, but I didn’t know that then).
“I’m just going to flush some saline to make sure your IV is working. You might feel like you’re tasting pennies in your mouth.”
“Okay. Yup, that tastes disgusting.”
“I’m sorry hun.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
“Umm, I think I have to do bloodwork.”
“Hmm, I don’t see that in here.”
“Well, I do it every three months and I don’t think he said I could stop. Maybe he did. I don’t remember.”
“I’m sure there’s a lot to keep track of. Let me check with the nurses and send the doctor a message. You can just wait right here.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry about this. There’s just nothing in your chart. Sometimes the orders expire and then we have to try and get new ones on the spot.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.