On A More Serious Note...

Today was an interesting day, humble reader. A humbling day.

I went with Mom to her last radiation treatment at the cancer clinic. All of her most recent scans and tests have come back relatively clean. There was a small spot on her jawline that they were concerned about, but the doctors were confident that the radiation would take care of it. And so, a couple of weeks ago she started her five heavy duty sessions of radiation.

She has developed some pretty awful side-effects. Ulcers in her mouth and on her gums, and a really bad case of thrush. Her mouth and throat are pretty raw, and eating and drinking are challenging. But in comparison to what I saw today, she really is doing well.

Sitting in the waiting room at the cancer clinic was different from sitting in waiting rooms at any other doctor's office. You could tell that whoever planned out the building really thought that people dealing with cancer had lost their intelligence. The wards are carpeted and decorated like living rooms. Each area was named something different. The Cabin, the Hills, the Fish Tank, etc. I understand the intention behind it, but who are they trying to kid? And from the people I observed, no one is fooled.

I saw three types of people while I was waiting. First, there were people like my mom. People who walked with purpose, like this was a normal thing. Very businesslike, they turned in their radiation therapy cards, went to change into the requisite ugly hospital gowns and robes. In the waiting room they sat in silence, reading the paper or a magazine. Not talking or even acknowledging each other. They were called one by one into their treatments, and those of us who were there as drivers/moral support watched them walk away with worry that was hidden behind a mask of stoicism the moment they came back.

Second, there was the people you could tell had only recently been diagnosed. They were chatting just a little to loudly, laughing just a little too much, and a little too eager about the puzzles and the coffee cart. I could see the fear in their eyes, fear I recognized from my mom's face before every visit to her oncology.

Third, and most heartbreaking, were the resigned ones. In particular, there was an elderly gentleman who was pacing in the hallway when we got there. He was clearly in his 70s and obviously in distress. He paced back and forth between the desks for the Hills and the Cabin. Every time one of the treatment room doors opened, he would look up with a smile. When he saw that it wasn't someone he knew, he went back to his pacing. When the therapists finally wheeled out his wife, his face just lit up. And I could tell that it wasn't a mask. He was truly thankful to see her. Looking at his wife, you could tell that she was going through hell. Her face was bruised and raw, her hair was almost non-existent, and the poor woman had two black eyes. As soon as he saw her, the gentleman leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. The therapist wheeled her in her wheelchair to the waiting room, and the husband sat beside her. She, barely able to keep her eyes open, sat slumped in her chair. As soon as he lowered himself into the armchair beside her, he took her hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it. It was sweet and sad. I couldn't hear what he said, but he talked to her the whole time they were waiting, and when the porter came to take her back to her room he didn't let go of her hand. It was like he was hanging on for as long as he could.

As I sat there, trying to observe them seruptitiously from behind my book, I was humbled. Humbled by his strength, his compassion and his love for her.

I can only pray, humble reader, that if I am ever placed in that position, where a loved one tires of fighting, that I will be able to be as strong as he.

Mom has a break now from treatments. She won't be starting chemo until the end of August.

Thank you, humble reader, for letting me ponder these sad things.

Until next time,

~ MissBaggins