I lay my side and a needle jabs in and out of my flesh.
My jaws had already been punctured by the needles.
My arm proved it wasn’t totally numb by the shattering pain at each needle poke.
I tried to remember the monthly visits to the oncologist when I would lay on my my baby girl while they stuck a needle in her back.
She got better drugs.
But she was two years old.
I could do this.
In and out. Drugs were going to help me heal. In and out. Medicines that were going to change the way I’ve done thing. In and out. Fixing what’s broken.
The needles go in and out.
“We’re done.” The doctor says softly. She rubs my arm to let me know it’s over and I’ve survived again.
Everyone files out except for my husband.
I wait til the door clicks behind the last one.
The cries come out. Tears fall. My chest heaves and I stop being strong for a minute.
Over. It’s over.
I get dressed. I wipe my tears. I prepare myself to wait.
Wait for results.
Wait for something to make THIS worth it.