In order to salvage as much of the day as possible, I schedule my once-monthly Saturday sessions at the Cancer Institute of New Jersey (CINJ) infusion clinic to start at 8am - when they open. Since an average visit for me lasts around 3 to 4 hours, that duration usually encompasses “lunchtime.” The clinic graciously serves the noontime meal for those patients willing or able to partake. A variety of vending-machine-esque sandwiches, drinks, fresh fruit, yogurt, the obligatory "hospital" jello, chips and cookie packs make up the menu.
I don’t know what it is, but among all of the sandwich offerings, I find something oddly soothing about their generic, super-soft white bread and industrial-grade (factory-made) tuna salad (I've tried the turkey, but yes, Dani - it's a little dry).
Perhaps it’s the way this seafood delicacy awakens the nostalgia in my taste buds and takes me back to the lunchroom at my K-6 alma mater Fern Hill Elementary School (where I spent all of 6th grade eating my lunch at the “Bad kids/Talks too much" table - I had issues, or maybe the school had draconian disciplinary protocols; but I digress). Nevertheless, the CINJ tuna really flashes me back - and in a good way. Comfort food at a juncture when my body and soul need some subtle solace. Paired with a single-serving-size carton of low-fat chocolate milk (or two; no limits are imposed), nutritionally balanced by a snack bag of sliced red apple pieces (serving as a palate-cleanser), and punctuated by a four-pack of Oreo cookies (because I was a good patient and finished all of my chemo) - rounds out my faux feast.
In the same way that I wouldn’t choose Leo Sayer‘s Greatest Hits as a desert island disc, I wouldn’t make a tuna sandwich a staple of my regular lunchtime routine. But in a chemotherapy-infusion session, at that time, in that moment - it works. To fill my head, my heart and my tummy with fond food and familiar feelings of good times.
