I hate chemo

I'm in the treatment room with Michael. He was too tired to walk all the way in from the parking garage, so we got a wheelchair. He ate half a bagel and a slice of cake this morning. That's the most he has eaten of anything in days. When we got here he had two Thin Mint cookies.
Only one person is allowed in the treatment room with Michael, so Rob is out in the waiting room with CNN droning away. He's listening to his MP3 player and reading a book. He didn't have to come, but he wanted to be nearby.
They give Michael a strong dose of Benadryl to prevent a reaction to the cetuximab, and he's pretty out of it now. They've had to give some extra anti-nausea medicine after the first 50 mg because it made him sick. He needs to get 300 mg more.
"I hate chemo," he said when we got here.
That's when I heard myself say, "You don't have to do this if you don't want. It's up to you to decide whether it's worth it."
He looks like an old man, not someone who should be in the prime of life. His cheeks are sunken and there are dark rings under his eyes.
But the chemo might give him back some quality of life. God, I hope so.
I didn't know I could do this without crying.