I think we're gonna need a bigger bag

The oncology nurse told me last week that cancer treatment is "a journey," but what I really need is not another cliche but some advice about how to pack for the trip.

Already I've sacrificed my decades-long purse-free status to purchase a colorful spacious tote bag and fill it with stuff I'll need on my many visits to the cancer center for radiation and chemotherapy. So far, my tote holds pen and paper, books, a tiny electronic sudoku game a friend sent before my surgery (thanks!), a little photo album full of pictures from my daughter's wedding, trail mix, chapstick, and hand lotion. After my most recent visit, I added a travel mug and some good tea bags so I won't have to resort to what's on offer at the cancer center: styrofoam cups and decaf Lipton, which as far as I'm concerned doesn't even qualify as tea.

What else do I need? I ought to pack some earplugs so that I won't be forced to listen the next time a fellow sufferer feels the need to loudly describe her ghastly side effects in intimate detail on her cell phone in the waiting room. I wish I could pack some extra patience, especially given the number of hours I'll spend driving around in circles in that horrible cave-like parking garage where all the arrows seem to point the wrong way.

A sense of humor will also be essential. The first time I met with my oncologist, he said, "That was one angry carcinoma," which made me wonder: Angry at what? At me? What did I ever do to make a carcinoma angry?

Laughter, though, defuses anger, depriving it of potency. I'm trying to leave my anger out of the tote bag and pack instead a healthy dose of humor. It may not be the only medicine but it's certainly among the best.