Sing for your Supper

I got to introduce a friend to ‘chemo day’ yesterday. Chemo day usually falls on a Tuesday, and for one reason or another, the day has become steeped in ritual. A new friend of mine, Jason, expressed an eagerness to join James, Erin and me for my labs, doctor’s appointment and chemo infusion, so I took him up to the hospital to meet ‘the gang,’ as the hospital staff are coming to be known. The process is tedious at most: I wait with whomever is with me for hours at a time before each activity of the day is accomplished: the needle that’s injected into my spine to give my Central Nervous System protective drugs, the forty minutes it takes for the anti-nausea drugs to settle in before the IV chemo can be administered. Normally, this is a long, boring procedure, but with friends, suddenly the time flies by. Well, okay no. It's still boring as dirt, but at least you're not alone in the misery!

Jason seemed intrigued by the rituals we’ve created around this day. I usually try (frantically) to get my business done earlier in the morning so that there’s no unfinished tasks to be completed. Chemo days, I have learned, are not days to try to get work done. There’s work happening, very different work, but not phone calls, not bills or obligations. I try to meditate and relax before heading up. After a day of drugs, an impromptu barbeque led me and my two sibs over to a house Jason was watching for a friend. Jason's hospitality was spot on, as he prepared small appetizers and munchies for us to snack on while he grilled ahi tuna. As we assembled the meal, he seemed a little taken aback, once again, by our family's formality over the presentation: the way we would set the table, bring out the wine, etc. I explained that where much of it comes from was last summer when James and I were caring for a friend of our family’s with MS. Because of our friend’s restricted condition, meals became the big events of the day. Over the last year, not only because of my own fairly ‘restricted’ condition, but also to encourage me to eat on days when I’d be feeling nauseous, we continued and elaborated on the tradition. Something about what disease takes from you makes you feel like putting in even more effort to counter-balance. Formal table cloths get pulled out, candles are lit, the perfect music found. Musing on the way we ‘play house’ with this aesthetic, I thought about the reason behind it. Each meal where we bring together beauty and friends feels like a small, humble Thanksgiving feast to me. It becomes an event because each participant acknowledges it as such.

After dinner, James and I broke out our guitars, another friend of Jason’s came over, and we sang and jammed as the candles burned. This is my favorite part. I love to sing for my supper, even on a day when I’m feeling grimey from chemo. As we drove our car home, tired, hoarse from singing, and stuffed with delicious tuna, I turned to my siblings. “You know why I love making dinners an event? Because that’s exactly what they become, a true event.” Next time, I’m pulling out the china.