Chemo People

I had planned a funny (maybe) and informative (loosely) post about my experience with breast prosthesis. I even had a clever title for it. I spent about 90 minutes this morning on it while waiting to head to the dermatologist's office to see about a new, darkening and growing spot I have on my arm, and planned on finishing it up tonight after chemo.

God had another idea for a story.

So when I go to chemo now it's pretty routine. I know the sweet pregnant woman who taps the port and draws my blood. She's due in a few months. I know the nurses who take care of me, and even though I'm only there a few hours a week, and they're busy with lots of patients, we try to get to know each other. While I'm there I'm forced to slow all the way down to a stop. I make jokes, make the nurses laugh, talk about funny things that happen (like my hair growing back but my eyebrows falling out!), and I'm generally always in a good mood while I'm there.

But my treatment is preventative. My cancer was removed in surgery. All of it, according to Drs D and N. The size of my tumor and a couple of other things were the determining factors for post-surgery treatment. I'm well aware every time I go in that this is not the case for many of the people who are sitting next to me.

There have been so many little stories.

A Hispanic woman was across from me recently. She didn't speak English very well, but her high school son interpreted for us. She asked if it was my first time and I told her no I had quite a few under my belt. She was just starting. She pointed to her midriff, so I assumed it was some sort of mommy part cancer. She had gorgeous, black wavy hair. It was just beginning to fall out, she told me. I mourned the loss of her hair a lot more than my own, let me tell you. "You are so brave," she told me. For driving myself to treatments. Her son told me that she said she didn't trust herself to drive, that she got dizzy spells. I told her I wasn't brave at all. I prayed for her then. I pray for her now.

Another woman, Well dressed. Very much kept to her phone until we were the only ones in the pod. Then she started talking. She had multiple myeloma. She had been in treatment for a long time. Her sister and several other people she knew had the same type of cancer. She talked about her side effects, her trips to Mayo clinic. She seemed like the type of woman that would be an amazing hostess at parties. She told me there was no cure for her cancer. I told her I'd pray for her. And I still do. She stammered a little when she told me she'd pray for me too.

Once a nice older man came in and got a chair next to me. They put an IV in and started him on fluids. He made several calls to a woman, presumably his wife, who was apparently in the process of getting the car washed. He told her to just finish what she was doing and call him back. When she did he told her that he was being admitted. She must have had more to do because he told her to go ahead and do these things but that  he would need her to come and bring him some things at the hospital. It seemed to be inconvenient for her. I never got to say a word to him but he made an impression because he -- although he was going into the hospital for tests and such -- was so patient, so kind, not rattled, calming her down despite probably being pretty worried himself. Also, when they were taking him to his room he said he was sad that a new bag of fluids that had just started would be wasted. I wanted to grow up to be like him.

There were others. We talked about dogs. Symptoms. Their kids and grandkids. Diagnoses. Side effects. We shared tips for coping. Or even just talked about the weather. So many people.

Then there was this woman. It was early on in my treatment. She had a friend (I'm assuming) who came with her. I remember being sad for her. She had obviously been doing this a long time. Bald. Hat. She got into the chair and pretty much immediately laid it back, closed her eyes, and went to sleep. It was impossible to tell how old she was, but to me she seemed young. It was one of the days when several of us in the room were chatting away. She never seemed to wake up but maybe she was awake because when her treatment was over and they were taking her out, she stopped at my chair, patted my leg and said, "Good luck." I think I stammered something like God bless or you too or something like that. I thought -- this woman, for whom this treatment is obviously NOT preventative, but hopefully life-saving -- wishes ME well.

So today when I was in for chemo the room was full. A woman to my left was reading a book. Her husband looked bored. The man to my right was by himself. The man directly across from me was sleeping. He had his wife and two grown daughters there with him today. All three of them finished and left and then it was just me and the nurse.

Until they brought someone in in a wheelchair. In the room where I was today there is a hospital bed tucked into a corner behind the chairs. I've always wondered why they needed that and today I found out. The very thin, pale woman in the chair was nearly too weak to stand. The man with her helped get her into the bed, not "doting" over her but sincerely just looking after her every need. Getting her under the covers, bringing warm blankets, asking about drinks/bathroom/any other needs. The nurse who brought them in told the nurse that she was starting a new treatment today.

This was all happening kind of behind me, so I didn't want to turn and make them uncomfortable. But at some point I did and realized -- this is the same woman who told me "Good luck" those weeks ago.

Today was the first day I really came face to face with the simple fact that many of the people next to me in chemo aren't going to make it. She was confused, she was scared, she cried. Her twenty-something daughter came in later and they cried together. They talked about the new treatment, but not about the mundane side effects, she's had them all with previous treatments. Instead they talked about will it work or not. They are preparing themselves.

So here's what God wants me to share:

1. Human beings are the most sacred thing we will ever encounter on planet Earth. Every single one of you is sacred. We were made in the image and likeness of God. Even the people who annoy us, scare us, or make us crazy.

2. Our bodies will all die. But we have eternal life and it's happening now. How we deal with that fact matters.

3. Suffering, tragedy, and seriously bad s**t is going to happen to most/all of us. It's not because we "deserve it." It is so we will CLING to God. That's all he wants. And it's all we need.

Two more chemo treatments. Two more chances to see and talk with and pray with these people God has brought into my life. Then radiation treatments start and that's a whole 'nother experience. I don't want to waste a single second of it.

Peace.