Toxic Cocktails - Act Two.

You read, you talk to survivors, you ask questions.

Chemotherapy has that effect on people. It definitely did us. You hear of horrific consequences, of hair loss, weight loss ... you know the drill. You've heard it, too, right?

What we weren't prepared for in the first chemo session was ... boredom. That's right. We sat through the chemo all day long, waiting. Intermittently checking the relentless dripping in the little round vial, we did our best to distract ourselves. Then suddenly, it was over.

The nurse unplugged the IV and wished us well.

We gathered our stuff and shuffled out in a sort of daze. Was it really that simple? We went home in the almost certain knowledge that the pleasant doldrum wasn't going to last.

Reminds me of the time I thought our son Will had swallowed a partial bottle of Tylenol when he was about four. Following poison control instructions, I gave him the Syrup of Ipecac chaser. He downed it with an appreciative smile and turned to leave the bathroom without a second thought, blissfully unaware the curtain was about to open on act two.

The curtain parted for us Saturday afternoon.

Laura went fishing in the morning, meeting my sister Beth on Merritt Island, while I went to enjoy a ride on my motorcycle. She came home in the early afternoon, low on energy, and was soon napping.

Now it's Tuesday. Laura was able to work a half day after missing the whole day yesterday.

Bouncing back? We can only hope.

A bold adventure. Allies required.

I didn't know how long the "Lose the Locks" party at the salon would last, but I knew I wouldn't have much time. My sister Beth was on her way into town with her son and I needed to be back to take Bobby into Gators while she joined Laura's support group at the salon.

I dropped Laura at the salon and drove casually toward Gators until I was out of sight. A few quick turns later and I parked in front of the barber.

As soon as she'd laid out her plans for the salon party, I'd formulated my secret plan to shave my head at the same time. She would come to Gators with her friends from the salon, feeling a bit conspicuous with her short hair, and I'd surprise her with my own. It was calculated to relieve some of her stress at looking so different.

Her hair had been long -- shoulder length at least -- since we were married more than three decades ago.

I was a little early for my appointment, but happily, Gina took me to a chair right away. It didn't take long, and as I looked in the mirror, I surprised myself. I could live with that, at least for awhile.

A quick swipe of my card, and I was on my way back.

Beth's double-take at the Gators parking lot made me smile, though the patrons inside didn't know me and didn't give me a second glance. I guessed I didn't look so freaky after all.

The conversation with Bobby about his week at middle school occupied us. Time dragged. We ordered appetizers and found other topics.

I was a little distracted. Every time the door opened, I was ready to see Laura and her entourage coming in from the salon. Time after time, I was disappointed. How long does it take to get a haircut?

Finally she appeared in the doorway, scanning. It was dark compared to outside and at least thirty feet from the door to where we sat, but soon she saw us and headed over. I was able to conceal my surprise under my baseball cap most of the way.

Her new cut was really good. The original idea was to shave her head, but she decided on short hair for the interim. It took a little adjustment since I'd never seen it on her before, but definitely made her look younger.

You can guess the rest. About ten feet away, her eyes widened. I took off the cap. Her jaw dropped.

Mission accomplished. A momentary diversion, at least.

Now we can share the future with something akin to a united perspective, though I don't kid myself about the difference between her hair loss and my shaved head. A guy can pretty easily convince himself he's rockin' that look, and now I notice guys with shaved heads everywhere. But of course it's different for women.

We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Her heart's not on her sleeve, but just under it.

Laura and I had no trouble at all finding the right room in the long quiet corridor of plain doors, thanks to tastefully understated signs.

Ambulatory Surgery.

I looked at Laura as we approached the door. She knew what was coming.

"You'd think they'd want people to hold still while they operate on them, not to have them walking around."

"Oh, I don't know. Doctors are often Type A personalities. They like challenges."

I opened the door and followed her in.

It was a pleasant enough waiting room with the requisite elements. There were the usual semi-comfortable chairs along the walls, the carefully spaced relatives and friends using their cell phones, novels, and knitting to do their best to distract themselves. This one was well designed, with some of the creature comforts of a living room. A large flatscreen flashed images and deep muted voices, and subliminal overtones of coffee mixed with quiet conversations.

Laura's procedure was to put in a funnel to her heart.

The toxins they will be feeding into her body by IV will need to go directly into the superior vena cava. Like the mouth of a funnel, the injection port itself is a 1.5 cm target that will reside directly under the skin on the inside of her right arm. From there, the tube from the port enters a major arm vein and travels all the way to where it empties outside her heart.

Other than starting late, the surgery went as expected, and besides a nice bruise and a little leakage and pain at the incision, we moved on to a spectacular "Lose the Locks" party.

Next: About Losing the Locks...

Behind the rainbow? It's very still.

I unlocked and opened Laura's door, and she climbed into the van without a word. Our parking lot conversation about the cost of head scarves had reached its natural conclusion. As I circled around the front in this private moment, I was ready for her emotional release. She'd been able to roll with it so far, but I didn't expect her to internalize everything we had just taken in, while still healing from the surgery.

I glanced up at her as I unlocked my side. She was lost in thought.

"I think I'm just going to go ahead and get my hair cut off before the first chemo treatment. Janet did that to avoid having it come out in hunks in the shower."

Ah, the unbelievable Janet. Janet, who had dealt not only with breast cancer, but bone cancer before that.

I shrugged. "Makes all kinds of sense to me. Sure more proactive and puts you in control. Yeah! I like it!"

"We can call it a 'Lose the Locks' party and invite friends. We'll drop the husbands at Gators and the wives can troupe over next door to the spa for the big event. Then we'll all toast to facing it head on."

I put the key in the ignition and fired it up. That's my Laura.

Don't like my worn out shoes, but at least I have some.

Perspective. It's a kind of magic, really.

I was sitting in my adirondack chair in the back yard trying to understand how it had gone so wrong. The week, now behind me, ended far from how I'd hoped.

Having worked hard for days to get the right results, I found out suddenly and unpleasantly I had gone in the wrong direction. My expectations for a happy conclusion turned into a crushing disappointment. It had been a long time since I had been so deflated in my work.

This is where perspective comes into play.

Laura and I had just gone through the same thing, but with much more significant consequences. Going into her surgery, our expectation was that negative results on the sentinel lymph nodes would mean that the ordeal was all but over.

When the doctor appeared in the waiting room after the surgery to let my sister and me know the nodes were negative, I felt like dancing, and I know Laura felt the same way when she found out.

Then we got the initial results from the pathology.

Finding invasive cancer, I'm sure, is never good news, even in small quantities. But imagine when you think you're at the finish line only to find the race may have just begun.

I looked out across the yard, and my work week settled into its proper place.

Shirts with fins and friends with tales

Once again, we've come a long way in a short time.

The surgery done, the healing has been exemplary. Now we wait, hopeful today's the day the doctor will remove the plastic tube drain coming out of Laura's side.

At the nurse's instruction Laura has replaced her stylish shirt with the stiff white paper vest we've come to associate with the office exams. It has large seams that stand straight up about two inches like fins along her shoulders, but we've long since exhausted our comments about the outfit. This is about the fourth time she's put one on.

She adjusts the open front, and frowns. "I talked with Janet, who said her chemo was usually once a week. Each week it's effects lasted longer and by the time the last one rolled around, her doctor decided they'd just better not do it."

One of her friends at the school has had to go through it, and Laura's not relishing the impact to her teaching schedule.

My thoughts turn to the time when chemo will take its rightful place alongside the likes of blood letting as a regretable sidetrack in medical annals.

As the doctor examines the surgical site, Laura recounts how she nearly fainted when she had a similar drain pulled out before. "It hasn't really been all that uncomfortable, you know, it's just more of a worry than anything -- having to be careful with it."

The doctor has her lay back on the table, and a few seconds later, the drain's out, much to Laura's relief.

A flood of dialogue ensues. Cellular marker results, dependencies, more uncertainties that will have to wait for pathologists' reports.

Next step: the oncologist appointment in about a week.

Vote with your feet, people.

Tightening my legs on the gas tank, I grip the throttle and accelerate smoothly onto I-4 from the Lake Mary on-ramp. I can't believe I'm going to get an actual paper paycheck today.

Of course I wouldn't be resorting to such lows without a good reason. Considering our already large bank just got gobbled up by a yet larger bank and promptly informed us that they were going to withdraw our money up to five days before scheduled bill payments was enough to rub my fur the wrong way.

We're voting with our feet.

Is it just me, or does it seem to anyone else that the larger a corporation gets, the worse their management decisions are for their customers?

Actually, I think it's a corollary effect to one of the Great Evils of our day -- concentration of power. The potential for manifestation of patent psychopathic disregard for the general good increases in direct proportion to the availability of power in any one person's hands. 9/11 would have been quite different a few decades ago when passenger jets (that could be piloted by one person) didn't exist.

I digress. Changing banks means a new bank account direct deposit, and a fresh trial period for the direct deposit.

Sizing up traffic pace and concentration of harried drivers on each others' bumpers, I decide there are already going to be plenty of cars in the twisted smoking heap when someone in the pack texts their girlfriend about how slow traffic is on I-4 today and doesn't see the car slow down in front of him.

I ease in behind one of the more reasonable cars in the slower lane. It's only a couple of miles anyway.