Session #8: Terminals

Sitting in the treatment room kind of reminds me of what it is like waiting in the airport terminal, waiting for some trip to begin, anticipating the upcoming change of scenery, place and position on the planet. 

Maybe it's the configuration of the treatment chairs.  Big, wide bays of lounging chairs facing each other, several yards of distance between them and views of many faces and backs of heads in front of and behind you depending on which bay you've been assigned.  Maybe it's the coming and going of people, the sound of rolling chairs and machines, much like the sound of rolling luggage, and the snippets of conversation one can tune into or out of depending on proximity.  

The pre-chemo drip does alter the senses somewhat, as far as trips go, so you do have an altered relationship to time, to people, to the moment.  You're sitting in the chair long enough, not dissimilar to the length of waiting time that modern commercial airline travel requires, two hours minimum.  Long enough to people watch and play little games with yourself.  

The game I have created I haven't won yet.  It's called the 'I don't have to pee game'.  I've gotten better, for sure.  The goal of my game is to make it through an entire session without having to roll to the loo.  The first session I had to go twice while hooked up to the drip machine.  One has to carefully maneuver from the chair with one's 'dance partner' and not get the tubes all wrapped around the rolling pole, to one of two bathrooms in the treatment room.  Depending on where you are, sometimes it's a long stroll.  And people take much longer in the bathroom, so you have to try and time things perfectly, not to wait too long for much discomfort or God-forbid, accidental release. (No, that hasn't happened to me.)  And it seems like always someone is in at least one of the bathrooms when you have to go. So far only once did I have a big panic when I rolled to stand outside of one of both occupied water closets but made it in time, not without having to double over in the process. The patient who came out gave me that knowing look and we passed a smile, not without some grimace on my part because of my state.  I've been fine-tuning my strategy, and last week almost made it to the end of the dripping process before I had to skate to the bathroom.  I have eight more chances to win the game.

Last week was the third in a row, smooth as butter.  And not without laughter (which, ironically, happens every session, it really is an unexpectedly cheery place.)  Before my friend Ilana arrived, with great glee and joyful exuberance that gave both me and Francine a pick-me-up, the patient directly across from my chair made the entire bay laugh, clap, and possibly cry, if only on the inside.  

She had earbuds in and was having a quiet conversation, you couldn't hear unless you have supersonic hearing or were sitting right next to her.  After ending her call, she broke the fourth wall, or the ice in the bay anyway, by announcing "I've found the perfect response for unwanted solicitations:

I usually wouldn't answer a spam, but what the hell, I'm going nowhere, so I did.  He says 'Hi, this is so-and-so from such-and-such, how are you?'

Well, I am sitting here getting an infusion for my terminal cancer, how are YOU?

He didn't say anything! Not a stutter, not an "I'm sorry", just: click.

And that's how you get rid of a spam caller. Hey, if I can't have fun as I'm going out, when can I?"

Everyone in the bay applauded this brutally honest and resigned person, amidst the sobering and serious underlying truth.  It was a tragically beautiful moment.  And a legitimate reminder that we all are going to die someday, whether we know the general time frame or not.  

Three times we got to clap for a patient ringing the final chemo session bell.  Three more beautifully tragic and triumphant moments.  But I couldn't help thinking about the terminal patient(s) and not tear up at the idea of them not getting to have that moment.  I guess at some point the treatments will end, but the terminal cancer may come first.  

Traveling is fun.  It's fun to go somewhere new and exciting.  But if you are living your life like a person waiting for the fun or the real-life experiences to begin next month, next year, when your vacation starts, when you graduate, get married, or divorced, get the job, write the book, win the lottery: that is wasting your life, and missing out on truly being alive.  

Not that anyone reading this blog is doing that. 

Peace and happy new year to all!