Chemo hurts. Trust me.

The room was frighteningly dull - painted in stinging yellow, the only thing decorating the walls was a window, with the shutters closed. You closed your eyes, the fluorescent lights hurting.
You walked to the bed, with the top half tilted so you were snuggly lying in a sitting position. The nurse was standing next to the large drip, filled with the liquid that was going to flow through your veins.
They say it hurt - the children in your ward. That once the tube was in your portcath, it would sizzle your pride and bravery, make you weak and fragile.
You lay down, the nurse, who was wearing a green cloak and mask, with a hairnet covering her long brunette curls.
Her gloved hands pulled you into a position, and she carefully unbuttoned your Chemo shirt. She asked you "First time?"
You said "Of course".
So she softly laughed, and patted your head. You squirmed but bore it. You wondered if Chemotherapy really hurt.
"Beam me up, Scotty!" you laughed, and the nurse just sighed, and said "Yes. You could say that."
She placed the tube into your portcath. She turned the tap on.
Slowly, the juice flowed down the transparent tube, and filled you up. It felt normal, but then soon it began to sting.
"Please that be all," you prayed.
Then, it began to burn at the arms. It flowed around your body, you squirmed again, and the nurse said "Sorry."
You writhe in pain as it began to creep up your stomach, gobbled your intestines, seared your gullet. Your mouth was on fire, your brain was in flames. Then, all of a sudden, the tap was turned off, and, bit by bit, the feeling in your toes and fingers returned, and spread like water through your body, cooling the raging flames coursing through your veins.
The nurse hugged you and you choke back tears when she said "See you next time."

Love to y'all,
neina-marie, a buzzin' bee