One word at a time.  That’s how Stephen King describes how he writes.

Now in the last hour of Nate’s 168-hour, continuous chemotherapy infusion, I am thinking about the past 167 hours.  Every single one of them.

For the past seven days, I have often felt like we are in the middle of a Stephen King novel.  Dark moments.  Gruesome scenes.  Anger.  Tension.  Frustration.  Humor.  Exhaustion.  And one moment in particular that was just plain gross and oddly comic.

I am also thinking about the literary master’s approach to writing and how perfectly it sums up how Nate and I have survived this week.   One hour at a time.

Chemotherapy presents obvious darkness.  I see my child overcome by nausea.  I watch as the chemo drips from the bag, down the pole, into the pump and out to tubes that are connected to my son.  Plastic tubes that go straight to his heart via a central line threaded through his jugular vein.  I fear what’s to come when these drugs wipe out his immune system.

But with Nate there’s an added twist.  He’s a toddler on chemo.  A curious, active toddler who knows I am not a patient woman.  A toddler who loves to watch my mouth drop open when he’s mischievous and has mastered this sport.

Turn your head from Nate for a few minutes and you’ll find him with a wide grin across his face, his teeth chomping on the tubes that contain the toxic chemicals.  Sometimes he tries to use the tubes to zipline to the chemo pole.  He’s found these three-foot lines also make for good lassos and nooses.

“Na-ate!  WHAT are you doing,” I yell.  I panic.  He smiles.  I shoot up, rush over and take the tubes from his hands or his mouth.   At the same time, the sensitive chemo pump knows something’s not right and starts beeping loudly until nurses come to shut it off.  On and on this goes all day and night.

Nate’s behavior has earned him the nickname “Johnny” from the scene made famous by Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  Nate discovered there’s a gap in his bed that can’t be zipped while he’s on chemo.  He loves to peer out of the opening  with a big grin and then attempt to climb out onto the chemo pole — roughly a five foot drop to the floor.  “Na-ate,”  I’d yell before rushing over to prevent him from falling out just as the alarms began to beep.

I too earned a nickname from a Stephen King novel.  Carrie.  During a sleepless night, Nate threw up what seemed to be buckets of a chocolate Boost shake.  With such force he launched this vomit into the air causing it to land all over me and cover the floor.  What a scene Nate and I were to the nurses who rushed in responding to my call for help.  I stood dripping in the dark room.  My face stunned as the liquid fell down my hair, face and clothes.  Nate was equally soaked.  The Mickey Mouse on the glow-in-the-dark T-shirt I was wearing appeared decapitated as the chocolate-colored puke covered his face.  Once we finally went to bed, Nate and I slept in until noon the next day.

We’ve slept in a lot of days this past week, and it hasn’t been a total horror show.  We’ve managed to have fun.  Heck, getting through a long infusion of chemotherapy with only one episode of vomiting is actually an accomplishment.

My family also watched the Super Bowl from Nate’s room and I had some visits with great friends who made these hours pass more quickly.  I introduced Nate to “Finding Nemo” and he loves it.  We had some pretty great naps on the couch in our room.

But I am now thankful that as of this moment Hour 168 has passed.  Nate is free.  And for me, it’s End of Watch.