The young Eastern European woman, her frail frame wrapped in a bulky blue sweater, shuffles into the infusion center, gripping her husband's bent arm for support. She speaks no English. Her fear is palpable.

Nurse Ester Molina greets her and steers her to one of the 19 adult infusion chairs at UC Davis Cancer Center. Molina gives the patient a pillow for her head and blanket for her legs. Her husband takes a seat at her side.

Forty-nine people will receive treatment in the infusion center today, several for the first time. But this young woman's arrival is cause for quiet excitement among the infusion staff. Diagnosed with lymphoma, the frightened patient has cancelled every appointment and refused all treatment, until now.

"If this goes well," charge nurse Gale Gibson says at the morning meeting, "she may decide to consent to treatment."

Of the nearly 3,000 new patients who are seen at UC Davis Cancer Center each year, many will pass through the infusion center. Chemotherapy drugs are administered here, and blood transfusions are given. Here patients receive care for their pumps, ports and PIC lines — technologies that improve delivery of anti-cancer drugs and enable patients to spend less time at the cancer center. Patients also learn how to take medications at home, how to cope with side effects and when to call the doctor.

Infusion center nurses are a special breed, versed in the latest chemotherapy drugs, equipped to recognize and handle allergic reactions and other medical emergencies, and skilled at managing such side effects as nausea and fatigue. They are also gifted vein-finders, humorists and listeners.

Over the course of the day the nurses will carefully review patients' lab test results to make sure each patient is strong enough for treatment. If a patient's liver function is too compromised or a blood count is too low, treatment may be postponed.

The nurses will check and double-check the name of each drug against the name of each patient, ensuring no one gets the wrong medication. They will give patients anti-nausea medications, timed for optimal effectiveness, and observe patients for adverse reactions. They'll offer crackers and bring juice. Between patients, they'll disinfect infusion stations, change pillowcases, fold laundry and stock supplies.

Sense of humor

Fear may be common here, but so are laughter, grace and courage. "When they walk through the door here for the first time, a lot of people are just terrified," Gibson says. "So we try to keep it light, keep a sense of humor. The people who work here are really good at that."

At one infusion station, nurse Marlene Perkins is swapping wisecracks with John Hauck, a retired trucker. The West Sacramento man is here for an infusion of mitoxantrone, a treatment for prostate cancer. The chemotherapy solution, flowing slowly from a bag over his head to a vein in his arm, is Popsicle blue. "When you leave here," quips Perkins, who has worked at the Cancer Center for more than 30 years, "you're going to feel like a giant Smurf." A conversation ensues about the Smurf cartoon show.

Later in the day, Jennifer Ducray-Morrill, former deputy treasurer of California, comes to her appointment bearing gag gifts for the nurses — yellow and pink bunny rabbit watches, finds from a trip to the Dollar Store. Gibson and Perkins gather to admire the gifts, but talk quickly turns to the upcoming wedding of Ducray-Morrill's brother. Despite her illness, she intends to host the reception in her Land Park home. She thinks she can make room in the foyer for dancing.

To keep her colon cancer at bay, Ducray-Morrill spends four consecutive days here every other week. It's a regimen she may need to remain on indefinitely. "I certainly wouldn't choose this," she says. "But the staff couldn't be better. They keep everyone — and themselves — cheerful. Nobody is ever down. I don't know how they do it. They help you make the best of a bad situation. And I appreciate it so much."

Safe haven

Other patients express similar sentiments. "I know this sounds funny," says Nancy Spain, an administrative assistant in the ophthalmology department at UC Davis Medical Center, "but I never want to leave here. I don't know how to explain it. This is a safe haven."

Spain arrived at 8 a.m. and won't be released until 1:30 p.m. For five and a half hours, she will be tethered to a humming, beeping pump that will deliver a fixed rate and volume of taxol, a breast cancer treatment, into her bloodstream via the port implanted in her chest. Yet Spain feels so at home here, where everyone has cancer, that she spends the day with her hat off, bald head bare. "They are so great here," Spain says. "They hold your hand, all along this path."

The admiration is mutual. "You spend the best time you can with the patients while they're here," says Robert Araiza, a nine-year veteran. "And they show you how to live. A lot of cancer patients don't sweat the small stuff. They focus on what's important to them, their friends and family — and they remind me that I don't really have that many problems."

Along with gratitude, generosity infuses this center. At the reception counter is a large basket with a hand-lettered sign: "Caps for chemo patients. Please take one." Volunteers sew and donate the hats. Next to the hat basket is a candy jar filled with peppermints. Nurses keep the jar stocked using proceeds from the juice cans they save and recycle.

The gifts from patients to their nurses are ubiquitous: A bag of sugar-coated chick peas in the pantry, a giant tin of Almond Roca in the lunchroom, plants and thank you cards everywhere.

Patients also give to each other: They bring in their magazines, from Harpers and The New Yorker to Teen People and Star, hundreds in all. Last year a patient and her husband donated an ultrasound machine that makes it easier for nurses to find veins. One personal DVD player has been donated to the infusion center, with eight DVD movies. The nurses are seeking donations of 18 more mini DVD players, so that even when the center is full, every patient can watch a movie.

By mid-afternoon, five patients have pushed back their recliners, footrests up, and are asleep under their blue blankets. The lights in two of the infusion stations have been dimmed. The patient in station 9 is snoring softly behind a drawn curtain. If not for the IV poles and needles, it might pass for an airplane cabin on an overnight flight.

The Eastern European woman has been asleep for most of her transfusion. Her husband hasn't left her side. Molina arrives to unhook her from the infusion pump, smile and say goodbye. The patient walks out, on her husband's arm. They both look relieved. She keeps an appointment with her doctor the following week, and begins chemotherapy the week after that.

"It's a rewarding job," says Chris Sharkey, a nurse who has also worked in hospice, home health and management settings. At 3:30 p.m., she finally has time to fit in a half-hour lunch break. Infusions are scheduled from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday through Friday. Infusion center nurses work four 10-hour days a week, from 7:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. each day, except when a treatment runs late.

"Sometimes it can be sad," Sharkey says, "but we have the opportunity to help people, wherever they are in their journey. And that's always rewarding."