Ippi Ever After. Martin Jr. McMahon

the kids and went to bed. By dawn I was heaving again.

      Day oncology had just opened its doors. Mary was with me. I made it into the tiny waiting room and collapsed onto a seat. I was heaving uncontrollably. All my reserves of strength were gone. I was totally wasted. I was transferred to a bed in double quick time. All the smells of the hospital made me heave even harder. In the next cubicle, a man talked to someone about take away food, I don’t remember if I actually asked him to stop but I wanted to. The next I knew I was alone in a small room on a different ward. The nausea stopped when I fell asleep but it was back a few hours after I woke. That was the pattern for the next two weeks. Hour after hour heaving, exhausted, sometimes forty eight hours at a stretch. Only sleep stopped it but sleep was practically impossible. I couldn’t keep anything down no matter how hard I tried. I had convinced myself that I could restart the interferon if and when this horrible sickness passed. One morning an oncologist sat and talked with me. He was convincing me that I was finished with interferon. I didn’t want to give up, I explained to him that I was determined to finish the course. By the time he left the room I conceded that I couldn’t keep going. My best shot at getting rid of cancer was gone. I was consoled that the nine months I’d done were not a waste of time, if interferon was going to work, I’d given it the most that I physically and mentally could.