Unconditional Love
Welcome to the radiation waiting area. We're now on Day #8 (there are 28 in total) of Bryan's radiation treatment. While the patients get called back to take a test drive in the "Ferrari of radiation machines" – thank you, Sinead – the family members, friends and other accompanying parties take a seat in the waiting area. It's a clean, quiet place, but from an energy standpoint it is one of the most emotionally charged rooms in which I have ever been. Each person radiates their own energy, giving the room a palpable feeling of anxiety, anger, sobriety, restlessness, and occassionally, hope.
Last Tuesday was our first "official" day of radiation. I remember that day, and perhaps always will, like it was yesterday. I don't know about you, but there are times and events in my life where I feel that my senses are so open it's almost as if I'm recording every moment in my mind. This was one of those moments. We were two of about ten people in the waiting area, and we felt like 5-year-olds being taken to the doctor for the first time. We had no idea what to expect; no idea what happened behind those "Oncology Staff Only" doors. Every sound was new. Every sight was new. I couldn't stop scanning the room, looking at each person and trying to figure out what type of cancer they had. For the record, I never let my eyes linger long enough to be considered "staring." That would have been rude.
There was a young Hispanic girl, probably about 32 years old, who was accompanied by her sister and her baby. A beautiful paisley bandanna covered her head, as she was clearly losing her hair as a result of treatment. There was an older African American gentleman, with whom I have since had the pleasure of getting to know, chilling out in his blue hospital gown. He knew all the nurses and doctors and was as calm and cool as a cucumber. Then there was the neurotic, angry Caucasian woman. She had places to go and things to do. She exclaimed, to no one in particular, that she had been "coming to this center off and on since 2001," and she didn't have time for this. Apparently she had to pick up her daughter from school and radiation was getting in the way. I didn't know how to react to her other than just simply sigh. Finally, there was an older couple, probably in their late 70s, who had clearly been coming to the radiation center for a long time. They were beyond sweet. He was sitting in a wheelchair, while she sat and held his hand from a nearby chair. They were talking to a cancer center volunteer about the friends they used to see in the park "from time to time," and how cancer inevitably got each and every one of them. It was heartbreaking and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to fight back my tears.
I wonder what they thought of Bryan and me that day. We were clutching
onto each other in the chairs. Literally, both our hands were wrapped
around each others. The old timers probably laughed at us, knowing we were newbies. Or they were devastated, knowing we were so young.
For me, it was amazing to see the different stages of acceptance in which each person (and group) seemed to be. I think these stages are something like denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally, acceptance. Some people were fine, like "let's do this so I can get on with my day." Some people were beyond pissed, being rude to the technicians and staff. Some people were clearly exhausted from the fight and just sat, waiting for their turn with the machine. And then there were the newcomers, like Bryan and me and another girl our age, named Joanna. While I don't know what emotional stage Joanna was in, Bryan and I created our own, "how the hell did we end up in a cancer center?" stage (okay, I guess that's technically denial). Between Bryan, Joanna and myself, the three of us were the quietest ones in the room. We had signed in at the registration booth with Joanna, so I knew it was her first day. I wondered what her story was, but didn't dare ask (we were too fragile and I could tell she was, too). I wondered when she got the news about her cancer and I wondered if it was from a good, caring doctor. I hoped she didn't have to go through the "Dr. Doom" experience that we did. I wondered what her prognosis was. But most of all, I wondered why she was all alone. Why there was no one there holding her hand. Had she not told anyone? Did she want to be alone? Or did she not have anyone to come with her? It really made me realize that no matter what Bryan and I were going through or how bad it might get at times, we had each other for support. Every day and every minute, through thick and thin. I think that is the true meaning of unconditional love.
I'll continue to share the stories of the people in the radiation waiting area, because they are truly remarkable people. But in the meantime, I'd like to focus on unconditional love. Not everyone has it. So if you're one of the lucky ones that do, please go home tonight and hug and kiss your wife or husband, your kids, your mom or dad, your best friend or your dog. Whatever or whomever they may be. Because life is too short to do anything else.
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