We drove along the too-familiar route from Parkridge through to the Pasqua Hospital.  Following Dewdney Avenue from east to west across the city, the car almost knew the way without my navigation.  Caylea didn't say much as we pulled in the driveway and I dropped her off at the entrance.  We had the routine down:  I drop her off, she registers at the desk, I find a parking spot and meet her in the waiting room.
As I entered the automatic sliding doors of the hospital, I passed by the hand sanitizer stand, the Ladies Hospital Auxiliary table, the Information booth and then through an archway to the Allan Blair Cancer Centre.  Another set of sliding doors and I passed by the reception desk to the waiting room for doctor appointments.  To the right was the way to the chemotherapy ward.  The chairs in that waiting area were empty for a change.  Must have been between early morning patients and the later group of which Caylea had been a part.
Sipping from her ever-present water bottle, Caylea looked better today than the day before.  Her hair was pulled in a loose bun, she sat a little straighter and her eyes were brighter.  The day before, Tuesday, had been a rough one.  The Tylenol just didn't touch the constant headache; she forced herself to eat but wasn't all that hungry.  But today, the side effects of her Interferon shot were subsiding and she could function more normally.
"Caylea", a nurse holding a folder called out her name, and pronounced it right this time.  We rose simultaneously from our seats and followed the nurse to the empty examining room.  First, we stopped at the weigh scale.  Caylea's weight was consistent with her pre-treatment weight.  Then we sat in the room and the nurse pulled up a stool.
After asking the questions we had compiled a list of, the nurse gave a few answers and then told us to wait for the doctor.  A few minutes later, a round man of eastern European ancestry, came in the room.  His first sentence was barely understandable and I responded with what I hoped was the right answer.  He was filling in for Dr. Iqbal, Caylea's oncologist.  He asked Caylea how she was.  She answered in mostly an affirmative way.  Then he said," So you want to quit the treatment?|
Caylea and I looked at each other with slight shock, then Caylea replied, "Well, yeah, but I don't think I should!"    The rest of the appointment went sort of like that.  We asked questions, but he gave vague or inconclusive answers.  It was clear he wasn't as knowledgeable on the Interferon treatments and her bloodwork hadn't arrived from the lab so he had very little but the file to go on...
It was decided that Caylea would see Dr. Iqbal in a month's time and find out more concrete information, especially on the subject of travel during her time on the treatments.
We left the office, both feeling this had been somewhat of a waste of time.  But she stopped by the pharmacy to ask about suggestions for something to help her fall and stay asleep.  We left there feeling she had some practical advice and could find things we needed with a trip to Walmart.
On the way back towards home, it was good to hear Caylea express how she was feeling.  Realizing this Interferon treatment is hard.  It is a whole year!  She had compared to others in the chemo ward and thought they must have it harder than she does.  And she felt weird, getting in the car and smelling the familiar car freshener - one of her Scentsy products - and the sensations and memories returned of getting in the car after her IV treatments back in the fall, blanket pulled up and feeling chills and headache, longing to go home...
I wanted to tell her it was going to get easier, that six months would go by fast, that she would have a life after this journey was over.  All I could do was agree, yes, this IS a long and hard journey!  You are doing well and you have been strong and amazing!  That many older melanoma patients on Interferon do not make it the entire one year...but you are young and healthy and we will support you for as long as it takes.
I am glad to be with her as she opens up and shows her heart.  The tough exterior and quiet ways are sometimes how she copes.  As we gather our new supply of items to cope with side effects, and then she walks in the house and immediately finds a recliner and blanket to curl up in, I see the exhaustion.  Even on a good day, its still sucking the energy and life out of our girl!

Romans 12:12 is a verse that spoke to me today as I pondered the appointment of yesterday.
 "Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer." 
That's all I can do.  It's the most I can do.