The date was December 23, 1997.

The place was the chemo room in my oncologist’s office.

I was receiving my last dose of CHOP, a rather toxic chemical compound designed to punch my cancer into remission just prior to the aggressive treatment (high-dose chemo, total-body radiation, stem cell transplant) scheduled to begin in January.

My older son, who had just arrived with his family for the Christmas holidays, was with me, keeping me company.

The infusion of the CHOP is a two-phase process. Because of the toxicity, the first part is administered by an R.N., with needle and syringe. The greater control assures that the chemicals will be injected directly into the vein, and not leak into the surrounding tissue, where it could cause damage. The second phase, more benign, is handled by standard IV drip, with the attending nurses checking occasionally to make certain all was well.

As frequently happens, the routine medical treatment was interrupted by a sudden, intense urge to visit the restroom. One of the nurses checked my needle site, switched the infusion to battery-power, and sent me on my way, dragging my IV apparatus behind me.

As I strolled across the floor, one of the other nurses noticed where I was heading. Ever ready to help in any way possible, she called across the room, “Are you going to be all right, Mr. Caldwell, or do you need me to come hold your pole?”

Needless to say, the place was filled with laughter. My son commented that he was impressed with the level of service being given by the medical staff. The nurse glowed red.

We all enjoyed the temporary respite from the rigors of treatment. My guess is that most of the patients went home after treatment that day, just a little bit happier than usual. We discovered, inadvertently, that even when we’re busy fighting a deadly disease, life happens. And sometimes, it’s just funny!!

Trust me, we'd love to hear your laughs :)
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