Page 144 of While I’m Still Here

Chemotherapy is quieter than I expected.

I don't know why that surprises me. I've spent enough time on NHS websites over the last week to qualify for some sort of honorary administrative position, and none of them suggested Bea's first chemotherapy appointment would involve dramatic music, flashing lights or medical professionals sprinting down corridors. Still, somewhere in my head, chemotherapy belonged in the same category as all the other terrifying medical words I've learned since Bea told me she had cancer. It should look frightening. It should announce itself properly.

Instead, there are chairs.

Rows of them, although they're spaced far enough apart to give people some privacy, with little tables and equipment positioned beside them. Some patients are reading. One woman has headphones on and is watching something on a tablet while a man beside her does a crossword. Somebody farther down appears to be asleep beneath a blanket. Nurses move between everyone with the easy efficiency of people doing a job they've done hundreds of times before, checking things, talking quietly, disappearing and returning with whatever they need. Nobody is rushing.

I find that strangely reassuring.

For Bea, this is the first time. For them, it's a normal Thursday.

I glance at her as we're shown where to go, expecting a joke about the chairs or the décor or Derek, who has already attracted several looks because it turns out an inflatable penis with FUCK CANCER written across its stomach isn't standard chemotherapy equipment.

Bea doesn't say anything. That's when I know she's frightened.

She's been talking almost constantly since we left her flat. Not necessarily about anything important. She's complained about traffic, told Marcus his coat makes him look like he’s about to investigate a suspicious death in a Scandinavian crime drama, and spent several minutes trying to convince Colin that Derek should be allowed to use the seat belt because “he's precious cargo.” The closer we've got to the hospital, the more she's talked.

Now she's quiet.

A nurse introduces herself and confirms Bea's name and date of birth before checking details with her.

She listens… Actually listens.

The nurse talks her through what will happen today, and I watch Bea nod while her fingers worry at the cuff of her hoodie. There are checks before anything starts. Questions about how she's been feeling, medications, symptoms and things she needs to report if they happen. The nurse explains that they'll monitor her, that Bea should tell them if anything feels wrong or unusual rather than sitting there trying to tolerate it.

That last instruction earns the smallest movement from Colin. I see it out of the corner of my eye, and so does Bea. “Don't,” she tells him.

Colin's expression is pure innocence. “I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn't.”

“You did a face.”

“I have one of those.”

The nurse smiles, and Bea relaxes by approximately half an inch. I don't because I'm watching everything now.

Every packet opened. Every check. Every time the nurse asks Bea to confirm something. Every movement near her arm. I have spent days trying to learn enough about chemotherapy that it won't frighten me when I see it, which turns out to have been a spectacular waste of time because understanding that something is routine does absolutely nothing to stop my stomach tightening when the routine thing is happening to someone I love.

Derek is propped against the wall beside me. The nurse asks Bea another question and Bea answers, but her eyes keep drifting towards the equipment beside her chair. Eventually Marcus notices too. “You all right?” he asks quietly.

Bea looks at him. “No.”

Marcus nods.

That's it.

Bea looks down at her hands. “I know I agreed to this. I know why I'm doing it. I know everyone has explained it to me approximately nine hundred times.” She pauses, rubbing her thumb over the side of one finger. “But there's something really fucking weird about sitting here waiting for it to actually happen.”

Marcus's expression changes slightly. “Yes.”

“You felt like that?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you knew you needed it?”