The Ritual of Needles
March 3, 2026
This morning we are driving up to New York City for my three week follow up appointment. My blood work is starting to give us some encouragement. The platelets and hemoglobin are up. The white counts are a bit down. It is still a balancing act.
Yesterday I got some labs drawn, another small checkpoint in this long road of numbers and nudges and necessary adjustments.
It unsettles me how something so invasive can start to feel ordinary. You sit in the chair. Roll up your sleeve. Make small talk. Look away or do not. The tourniquet tightens. The alcohol swab is cold. A vial fills, then another, then another. Labels printed. Bandage pressed. “Hold here.”
It becomes routine. But there is nothing routine about what it represents.
Every week, the labs tell a story my body is still writing. White counts. Hemoglobin. Platelets. Numbers that now feel like report cards. Some weeks they cooperate. Some weeks they do not. When they dip too low, the next step is already waiting.
Shots to boost the counts. Medication to remind the marrow what it is supposed to do. A quiet nudge to my body that says, “Come on. We need you to start working.”
Those shots sting in a different way. Not unbearable. Just persistent. A dull ache that lingers in the bones as they try to wake up and work harder. It is strange to feel effort happening inside you. My knees and calves seem to feel it the most.
Then there are the unexpected moments.
This week, during one of the draws, there was an accidental needle stick. A slip. A quick shift in energy in the room. Protocol kicks in. Calm voices. New gloves. More blood drawn, from not just me, but from the nurse as well.
It was not dramatic. No panic. Just another reminder that this process touches more than one body. There is something humbling about that.
Cancer treatment is often described as a fight. I understand why. It feels active. Determined. Courageous.
But some weeks it feels less like fighting and more like submitting to a rhythm you did not choose. Showing up. Extending an arm. Letting the numbers be what they are. Accepting the shot. Accepting the ache. Accepting that sometimes even the routine goes sideways.
What strikes me most is how quickly the extraordinary becomes normal.
Weekly labs. Boosting injections. Watching platelets like they are stock prices.
Learning the vocabulary of neutrophils and hemoglobin. Thanking nurses who have seen it all and still offer warmth.
This is the work now.
There is vulnerability in needing your blood checked to know if you can keep going.
There is vulnerability in relying on medication to build what once built itself effortlessly.
There is vulnerability in watching someone accidentally stick themselves while caring for you and realizing how fragile we all are.
Yet there is also quiet strength in returning each week. In sitting down again. In rolling up the sleeve again. In trusting the process again.
Healing, I am learning, is rarely cinematic. It is procedural. It is incremental. It is paperwork and lab slips and cotton balls taped to your arm. It is bone-deep aches from shots meant to help. It is small complications handled with steady professionalism.
It is resilience measured in vials.
So next week, I will go back. I will sit in the chair. I will extend my arm. I will watch the numbers. I will take the shot if I need it.
Not because I enjoy any of it. But because each vial drawn, each count boosted, each ordinary appointment is another step forward, and forward, even when it stings, is still forward.