#139 Waiting Rooms

Yesterday was my 6 month CT scan. This scan checks for metastatic cancer in other organs.... lungs, liver, pancreas, stomach....basically neck to pelvis.

It was this time 3 years ago I found the "lump".

Needless to say the November breezes bring more than the promise of Winter to my soul, they bring the trauma, the remembrance of the life I left behind. The person I was. These sunny golden days remind me of how blissfully unaware I was of my mortality, how I just cruised through weeks....never bothering to notice the little things.

I never did much mind about the big ones either. I was, happy. Bought a new house. Finally happy with a man who loved what I loved. Cycling. Chicken salad in a bowl, the gym on a Saturday morning, nachos with a good show. Sleep.

It all came crashing down around me 3 years ago and every November I make my way to the hospital. If you're curious about that day, scroll back to entry #1 in this blog....it might make more sense.

Anyway off I went.

It never gets any easier to walk in the doors. What lies behind them is nothing short of heartbreaking on so many levels. There is no one here that isn't a survivor, a sufferer or someone who just found out they have cancer. It's a totally different vibe. It's solemn.

Nevertheless, in I go. A veteran now....years of checkups, recognizable faces. It's always nice...the nurses and staff smile when they see me. I'm still alive...it gives them hope. God knows what they see everyday.

So routine is, I check in....and then the "doors" open for me by a button pressed behind the glass. No one goes here but patients or staff, there are still no care givers allowed. This is the long hallway to the Diagnostics Department. I have been wheeled semi-conscious, I have walked and I have been accompanied by a support staff but I have never done this walk with someone who loves me. It's always just been me.

There's no one around. It's not busy. It's quiet. No chatter of families reassuring their loved ones that it'll be OK. It's just you.

So, I continue. I got to the waiting room and met a fellow who was suffering from pancreatic cancer. There was a bit of a backlog so we chatted. They gave him 3 months in January and he didn't look like he had too many more. He couldn't eat much anymore....he just kept talking about a cardinal he had seen in the gift shop and how he wanted to buy it for his wife for Christmas because he was pretty sure he wouldn't be around. I chatted with him saying it was a nice idea and surely she would appreciate it. I was speaking to a dying man.

We chatted about heartburn, chemo and radiation. Things we've had in common and we also chatted about the weather, like we were just two people on a street. It's so insane how the mind works. Neither one of us wanted to be there but really where else could we be. We're trying to save our lives. He is losing. It was evident and he acknowledged it.

He said "I just hope I don't die at Christmas and ruin it for all the kids". Fuck. I said "yeah...that would suck". We're not playing pretend here. No one is kidding anyone. I said...."Well....I think the cardinal is a lovely gift and every time they see it they'll feel your presence and love". He agreed. I wished him well and off into the scan room he went.

I then sat there alone. Contemplating mortality. This man clearly had months if not weeks to live, he was in the process of accepting it....wanting to leave something behind. Afraid and alone.

I just thought about my life and looked down at myself and realized I felt much better than he described he felt. I almost felt guilty.

Then it was my turn to get my IV put in. I'm at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to IVs because I only have one arm that works. My right arm isn't available for anything due to my amputation of my lymphatic system on that side. Anyway....they couldn't find a vein, punctured me 4 times and then warmed me up.

Gotta get the blood to the arm. During this time I chatted with the nurse like I was about to have a pedicure. It was a nice break. Then I warmed up and they were able to insert the catheter that would deliver the contrast dye to my body. The purpose of this dye (besides making you feel like you're on fire from the inside and about to piss your pants like you're 2) is to highlight potential cancerous cells. It is truly awful. You feel poisoned.

This is the machine they then insert you into.

You go in feet first. It whirls and spins and does all sorts of shit. Your head is inside the donut. You can't see anything. Life spins and spins and spins. The contrast dye flows into your body and you feel sick and scared and just want it to end. End, it does.

You go back out, they take out the IV and you go home.

I always walk back to my car, holding in the tears. I get to my car and have a solid 5 min cry. Just me. Head in hands. Wondering why.....how did this become my life. Why am I fat and breastless and bitchy and short tempered. Why don't I stop the hormone pills and become who I was? Why don't I stop the injections and shed the pounds? Why can't I manage????

Well the truth is, it's unrealistic for me to assume I can do any of those things and ever forget what I've been through. Even the conversation in the waiting room....it's life.

I slept fitfully last night, fear of the past, future and sadness for those I'd seen that day.

My drive to work this morning was enlightening.

We live on the mountain so when I looked out my window it was clear.....as I approached the access to lower Hamilton it became foggy....

It resonated with me.

We're all driving into a fog. The fog of unknowing.

No one knows what's around the bend. What's to come.....

Each one of us battling a different uncertainty, a different struggle. It wouldn't really be life without these challenges. It made me feel connected to everyone and everything.

It made me empathetic.

I gave thanks at that moment for the experience of being human.

7 hours later I got a call from my oncologist....no sign of cancer from my scans.

I felt even more human than before.

Moment to moment....day to day....we don't know and we can't predict.

The best we can do is try to see through the fog to the humanity in everyone. To appreciate each day, to feel blessed to be alive.

Even if just for this day.