Round 7 — Alone Together

Being in the Chemo Chair

Being in the Chemo Chair

Round 7 — Chemo Day

I reached for Dave’s hand—it’s always comforting, like a warm sunbeam. We simply looked at each other and smiled. No words were needed. I let my eyes close. In the dark behind my lids, grief rose without warning; by the time I noticed, the tears were already there.

This is the part no one can share. Nurses can thread lines, Dave can steady my breath, friends can text love into the room—but chemo is a single-body journey. It moves through me, not us.

Here on the chemo chair, it’s just me and my parts. I’ve played favourites for years. If they were siblings, my mind is the golden child—quick, efficient, forever organizing. My sprite (the joy-self) is the fun kid—the playlist, the joke, the optimistic powerhouse. My body? The black sheep: expected to carry the load, blamed when it stumbled, and managed instead of being heard.

Round 7 became a reckoning. The sprite did what she does—kept spirits afloat, added light where she could. The mind surprised me, her voice low and careful: I’m sorry, buddy. You’re tired. I won’t push. The body doesn’t trust her anymore, and maybe that’s part of how we got here: years of living at dis-ease with myself. Not a diagnosis—just the truest word for the feeling.

The oncologist offered an extra week to recover from Round 6. Old me—the deadline-driven PM—would’ve chosen grit and efficiency. This time I asked the body: Can we keep the schedule—only if you agree? The answer wasn’t words. It was breath that didn’t hitch, shoulders unhooking a millimetre, and an overall surrender that said: we must keep going. So we stayed the course—not to win, but to keep faith.

The mind promised new terms: nurture without judgment in sensory overload, hydration on demand, blankets at the first chill, food without rules, movement that soothed rather than drained. The sprite offered small mercies: hope, gratitude, silence when needed, music when not. And the mind vowed to release the little tasks that usually fall on the body—some things can simply wait.

I cried quietly through most of the session. It felt honest—respect for the private work the body endures, the work even love can’t enter. Yet the room wasn’t empty: Dave’s warm hand, the monitor’s hum, a guitar from 1994 threading the beeps and air vents.

When it was over, nothing dramatic had happened—and everything had. The mind apologized and meant it. The sprite kept watch. The body was heard and stayed. There’s a ledger between us; Round 7 deposited in trust.

I opened my eyes. Dave was still there. Friends had sent lovely texts. And, for me, an agreement among my inner siblings: we’ll do this together—and this time we won’t leave the body behind.

---