A better name for “Infusion Room” would be “Last Chance Saloon” or “Get Chemo Here, Unlucky Ones!”

I’d rather be anywhere else, especially home with my wife and one-year-old son, whose black-brown eyes and dimpled grin are the only things that distract me. But I’m here, in the waiting room of a university medical center, preparing for my first of many infusions.

Soon a nurse will call me in to go over the process. I already know the basics: IV-needle, drip, drip, drip, sit, wait, pray. Except the last one. I’m not religious. Not yet.

“Hi,” someone says.

It’s the woman sitting across from me. Mid-50s, feathered white-blonde hair, an all-denim ensemble I might have snickered about in pre-chemo life.

“I’m Deb,” she says. “Your first time here?”

I nod, reluctant to start a conversation.

“My heart’s not behaving,” Deb continues. “The chemo will prepare my body for a transplant. If I get one.” She looks surprisingly peaceful.

“I hope you do,” I say.

“It’s okay if I don’t.” She leans a bit closer. “I’ve seen a lot of life already. And it has seen a lot of me.”

I want to know more. About how denim-clad Deb came to have such perspective, such grace.

But they call my name.

I rise from the seat. “Good luck,” I say.

“You too.”

As I walk toward the treatment room, I feel infused with more hope than I have since the diagnosis, ready for whatever lies ahead.

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Sachin can be found at his cool writing website: http://www.sachinwaikar.com/