Up and down, with thousands more

It is amazing how easy it is to overlook the obvious. I don't see—I suspect like many others—what is so clearly in front of me, waiting for a thoughtful glance.

- MANISH NANDY

I had my first session of chemotherapy, following a diagnosis of fourth-stage cancer. The oncologist tells you what to expect. The chemical infusion and some of its consequences; you are handed pills to combat a few of the unwelcome but probable effects. Then you enter the clinic where it all happens.

It is a large, L-shaped, well-lit hall, with twenty armchairs which recline for the patients' comfort. I take one and a woman approaches with a smile.

"I am Debbie. I will be your nurse," she says pleasantly.

"Thanks," I respond, "how come you don't sound at all like a southerner?"

She laughs, "I am actually English, from Liverpool. I came to the US for three years of work. It has become thirty years."

I am glad this gentle-toned, pleasant-faced woman is my keeper. She promptly reclines my chair and places a warm blanket on me. Ah, the comfort in this staunchly air-conditioned room!

Now the main business: the chemicals that have to be pumped into me. A surgeon has already cut open my chest and placed a port beneath my skin, so that drips can be easily infused. Debbie rolls the steel pole that carries the large bag of chemicals to my right and inserts the opening in the port. "Ouch," I say briefly, and pick up a book from the tray on the left and try to focus on something esoteric.