Chemo Day

The waiting room at the Bruno Cancer Center is a bizarre and busy crossroad of lives. I sit in a chair in the corner,  so I can see the majority of the room (save for the chairs that are blocked by the aquarium in the middle) but most importantly, the door where Dave goes in. I like to watch the traffic and try to guess who is here for the first time, who is in the middle of treatment, and who is here for follow up. I want to see the nurses when they come out in case one of them is looking for me.

Also, I've scoped out the place and my chair is one of the few next to an electrical outlet, which is necessary if I'm going to work while I wait.  Sometimes I work, sometimes I Google, sometimes I read. Today, I've done a little of all of that and addressed birthday party invitations for Ella. Last time, I worked the whole day, with my business all spread out around me, talking on the phone and annoying my fellow waiters. I sent my dad a message that day to tell him, proudly, that I had been acting just like him all day. (When he waited with me for Dave to have his port put in back in March, we both spread our business out around us and worked, him borrowing my notebook, glasses, and laptop because he wasn't planning to work until he saw me with all of my work things. It was classic Wyattness.)

It's really hard to focus on anything for very long because there is so much traffic in and out of this place. Dave has one of the longest chemo treatments, so we get here first thing in the morning when there are usually only 2 or 3 other people here, and we leave late in the afternoon, when the crowd has thinned out. That means I get to watch a group of people pass through in the morning and then be replaced by a new group in the afternoon. Some people bring a herd of people with them and some come completely alone. I'm not sure how that works. Maybe they don't get Benadryl with their chemo cocktail? Or maybe they have a ride coming later?

All these people make for good People Watching. I like to listen to their conversations and try to figure out who has cancer, what kind, how old they are, etc. And also, sometimes they are just funny.

There is one pair of older ladies, always dressed to the max with jewelry and shoes that put my t-shirt and flip flops to shame, that I've sat next to twice now. They come in the morning. The husband of one of the ladies has cancer and I'm convinced that one brings the other lady along for entertainment while she waits. Today, armed with new iPhones in pink Otterboxes, they were discussing whether or not they had the Timeline on Facebook, how to create notes on the iPhone for their grocery lists, and looking at a picture on Facebook of so-so's new wife whom no one knows is married. They left before lunch.

While they were here, another family of husband, wife and 2 grandchildren came in and sat beside us. The wife has cancer. The children were young, a boy around 5 years old and a girl about 12 months, she sort of walked but mostly crawled. And she tried to take Fancy Lady's phone and magazine. They also left before lunch.

After them, an older man sat down next to me with a lap desk, a Bible, and a stack of mail. He actually initiated a conversation with me because I'm wearing my Job 13:5 shirt today. (I almost never initiate conversation in waiting rooms because I'm socially awkward with strangers.) I found out that his stack of mail was actually tests from a prison correspondence course - a Bible study - that he and his wife help facilitate. His wife had cancer and they come back to Birmingham once a year for her follow up appointments. They live in Georgia now but they like these doctors. The wife grades the multiple choice part of the test, then the husband reads and comments on the discussion questions. Their daughter got her Master's degree in audiology at the University of Montevallo. He and his wife live near her now to take care of their grandkids while she works a few days a week. She actually called and asked them to move to Georgia to do that and they did. I told him I thought they are doing good work, both with the prison ministry and the grandkids. And it got me thinking, my introverted self could grade tests for Biblical correspondence courses...

Then as I was answering the question about Dave's profession, another man sat down with us and volunteered that his brother was a criminal defense attorney until he finished his 17th capitol murder trial and decided he needed to do something else. His wife has cancer, and he's still here waiting for her to finish her treatment.

There is another man here who had a visit from his son, daughter-in-law and baby granddaughter while he waits. I'm not sure who he's here with, but I presume it's his wife. He's still waiting, but the baby is gone.

There's a whole group of people on the other side of the room that I watch, but can't hear. I keep track of the young ones because there aren't many. Most of the people here are 40 or older. I keep track of who has lost their hair and who is in a wheelchair that wasn't last time. I wonder how often they have to come.

I really like it when there are little kids here because they liven the place up a little. But there aren't many kids because treatments take hours and there is nothing to do here but read 8 year old magazines and watch Judge Somebody loudly berate young idiots about their failure to use birth control (a point I agree with, though at a lower volume).

I check on Dave periodically but I can't stay with him because the treatment room is a large open space with lots of chairs separated by little walls so the patients can't see each other, and so they can pretend they don't hear each other. When I'm back there, I take note of the young ones as I scurry into his little space, trying not to invade the others' privacy and disliking the wide-open feeling of many sets of eyes on me as I walk through the door. I bring him snacks and lunch and try not to bug him if I think he might be sleeping. When he's finished, he comes out looking wholly normal without even a visible bandaid since his port is in his chest. Then we go home.

This is what Chemo Day looks like for me.