The poison disperses through my veins slowly. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Tingles radiate from my shunt. Soon, I’ll feel the urge to vomit and I have a kidney shaped tub in my lap expressly for this purpose. It’s mauve, which doesn’t complement the yellow bile that spews from my mouth during treatments. I don’t mind. I’m not here for the ambiance.

I run my hands over my slick scalp and lift my gaze, catching movement to my left. There’s a small woman sitting a seat over. I hadn’t noticed her come in, as I often doze during chemo sessions. Here, dreaming is more fun than reality.

I take in her long, shiny hair and wide-eyed expression. She looks like she wants to crawl between the cushions of her mint green chair, she’s withdrawn so far into her seat. A first-timer. I smile, sure I look positively ghoulish with my bald head, my gray skin. Welcome to cancer.

A nurse bustles in, booming loudly in a too-cheerful voice, “HOW ARE WE TODAY, LADIES?” The newcomer winces and smiles weakly.

“Cuánto tiempo hasta que esto termine?”

Nurse shakes her head to indicate she doesn’t understand, adjusts the drip on her chemo bag and quickly exits.

“Cuánto tiempo hasta que esto termine?” she asks in my direction, nodding at the clock on the wall.

I glance at the clipboard hanging from her seat. I can decipher a medical chart like a champ.

“An hour?” I hold up an index finger to indicate one. Newcomer nods. 

“Ahh! Si, claro.”

We sit in awkward silence a few moments longer, and then I erupt, angry yellow funk flowing as my body rebels against the chemicals. Newcomer looks around frantically but apparently Loud Nurse has gone out for a cigarette. I give one final heave and wipe my mouth.

“It’s okay. Puke happens.”

She nods, but I can see that she has no idea how to respond. Maybe she doesn’t understand, maybe she isn’t accustomed to sharing bodily functions with someone so soon after meeting. She’ll learn. What happens at chemo stays at chemo.

Then I see it. My new friend has been hooked into her I.V. for awhile and her eyes start to swim. She looks terrified and ill, eyes darting back and forth as she searches for Loud Nurse, who probably needed coffee with her cigarette. Long-term patients accept the nauseated swells that come with cell genocide, but she’s trying to fight. Not good. It’s better to just let it come.

I slide gingerly to the seat adjacent to her, yanking my I.V. pole after me like an unruly child, and pass her the pink kidney just in time. She’s making a strangled noise and I reach over and stroke her hair. Maybe because she’s so tiny, I start to hum a lullaby my mother sang to me when I was sick as a child. I can feel her shudder under my hand and start to cry.

She reaches over and gently squeezes my hand.