For those who have not met Anastasia, I should explain that the story of this accident ends well.  She recovered from the overdose quickly (as toddlers do).  Weeks later the genesis of her petit mals was definitively diagnosed as resulting from a disease called tuburous sclerosis. Doctors predicted that Anastasia would live into her teens; but that we could not expect her to survive longer than that.  This coming November, our family fully expects to celebrate Anastasia’s 43rd birthday! Although disabled, Anastasia’s is a joyous and cheer-filled life.  She works as a weaver in a sheltered workshop (and would gladly sell you some placemats, table runners, or other woven goods she and her colleagues are so proud to create).  It surely looks as if she may outlive me!  Predictions, even medical predictions, don’t always come true.

In my Cancer Clinic, I wear a wrist bracelet with my identification.  Even so, as each new bag of medications is attached to the IV pole, the nurse asks me to state, aloud, my name and birthdate.  When particular drugs are being prepared for infusion a second nurse is summoned to witness my answers as to my identity, and to corroborate that the medication being injected into me is the one that has been prescribed for me and not another patient.  This procedure should console me… save for the fact that I know that such a regimen would not have been put into place had there not been prior experience of mistakes being made.

When I appeared at my Cancer Clinic last Friday it was to be “unhooked” from my fanny pack with its 48-hour continual infusion.  I was greeted cheerfully by the attending nurse who said “You’ve been here before [and presumably know your way around].  Go on in, and get comfortable.  Someone will be with you in just a moment.”  Confidently, I strode down the hallway but quickly found myself in a warren of physician’s offices and small specialized laboratory rooms.  I’d clearly gotten lost and didn’t belong there. Abashed, I retraced my steps and eventually found my way to the infusion rooms.

I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction.  I didn’t even get very lost in the wonderfully crooked streets of Rome or Milan, or the anti-parallel ones of Krakow.  [In the case of many Medieval Cities, the central nest of alleys and narrow lanes are not merely artifacts of geography or topography, but were intentionally designed to confound and confuse intruding marauders who might have penetrated the outer perimeter walls of the city.]  So I was curious about having gotten lost in an office building… until I realized that, quite possibly (read “likely”), I didn’t really WANT to get to the infusion rooms.

Although culturally endorsed, its actually contrary to some deeply imbedded genetic code to admit Fear.  Yet, for the past two days, on the run-up to only my second full days of chemotherapy, Monica noted that I’ve become increasingly apprehensive.  I’ve felt it, too.  I’m in the best of care and am possessed of the most competent academic and clinical advice about my condition.  My chemotherapy is administered in sterile and professionally controlled circumstances by experienced and exceptionally well-trained nurses.  But despite these rational understandings, I’m afraid!  …of mistakes;  …of possible pain;  …of the integrity of my body being violated by incisions and needles;  …of poison;  …of my cancer;  …of ignorance and the helplessness that comes from it;  …of, perhaps, losing control;  …of potential humiliation;  of… of… of.  [Its worth noting that these fears all relate to the ego.]

The mischievous face of Alfred E. Neuman mocks me with his iconic motto: “What, me worry?”  Sure, me worry.  And for good reason.