We're All In It Together
Now that we're towards the end of radiation, I've noticed a definite shift in our "standing" in the radiation waiting room. We're not the newbies anymore. We've come so incredibly far from being that terrified young couple, newly diagnosed with the "c-word" and clutching at each other while waiting to meet with the doctors. We're "regulars" now; actually, we're more than regulars. We're almost veterans. We know the routine, know the in's-and-out's and have several friends at radiation now. We see the same people everyday. There's a Jamacian couple in their 40's, the wife of whom has breast cancer. Her husband is there with her everyday and they always say hello and ask us how we're doing, their English masked with thick Jamaican accents. They are such a sweet, loving couple. They were there the day we lost our diamond and experienced our initial despair and then, great joy, upon recovering the stone.
Then there's a couple in their mid-60's, the wife of whom also has breast cancer. Breast cancer and brain tumors seem to be the leading form of cancers being treated at the radiation center. She comes every single day with her black wig (yes, wig) perfectly curled and a full face of makeup. She must think I'm a total slob, as I show up in my jeans, tank tops, flip-flops, wet hair and no make-up. Make-up and blow-drying my hair has definitely taken a back seat to the brain tumor, and I think that's okay. But unlike me, this woman definitely gets ready for her trip to the radiation center. It makes perfect sense though, as I can tell that it's part of her coping mechanism and fighting strategy to feel "put together" during treatment. Almost as if she's not letting cancer take away her ability to look beautiful, even sans hair. It's really inspiring and you can tell she's a tough woman. She's not going down without a serious fight. Not to mention her husband is an absolute doll; we had a contest today to see who could find cell phone coverage – even one bar – in the waiting room. I won. :)
Then there is one of the other obvious brain tumor patients, a man about 6'7" tall who has to duck through doorways to get into the radiation center. I can tell he has a brain tumor because his radiation area is all around his head. When we first saw him a few weeks ago, his light brown hair was about 1 1/2" inches long and almost poofy (I don't think that's the technical term). But scattered throughout his scalp were three to four 2-3" completely bald spots, signifying that he's having direct spot-on radiation treatment to hit a compact tumor in his head (localized hair loss is a side effect to radiation; you just can't tell on Bryan because he's already bald). As the weeks went on, this guy cut his hair shorter and shorter, from a poofy cut to a buzz cut to now, completely shaved. The spots without hair are almost white on his head, and there is a thin, 4-inch long purple scar on the back of his head. He obviously had (hopefully all of) a tumor removed and is now undergoing radiation treatment to treat the surrounding or remaining cells. He comes everyday, Kindle in tow, accompanied by different friends or family members. He's very quiet and clearly has been through quite a battle.
Finally, there's an older gentleman; he always comes in alone but is a very friendly man with a caring smile and calm demeanor. As Bryan says, "he's a friendly old-timer." Unlike the breast cancer or brain tumor patients, I can't tell what type of cancer he has and I haven't brought myself to ask. It's not as easy to tell with the other types of cancers, as all patients (save the brain tumor patients) have to change into blue hospital gowns. They just sit there in the radiation waiting room, gown on and buzzer in hand, waiting to be called to the machine. It's like a much more sterile version of T.G.I. Fridays; all buzzers and no flair.
Yesterday, I wondered why I haven't yet been able to mutter three simple words – "Where's your tumor?" – to these people whom have now become our friends. It's not like there's a code of silence or that talking about your specific type of cancer is taboo, but there is something in acknowledging that you HAVE cancer that makes it real. It's not something people bring up willingly, even though there is absolutely no denying that we're all together in a cancer center. But talking about "it" almost gives "it" power, when the reality is that people would rather get in, get out and get on with their day without getting into the specifics. There's also the fact that everyone is in a different stage of acceptance and openness, and I definitely did not want to risk stepping on any emotional toes. If anyone had tried to talked to us on our first day, I would have bitten their heads off. We were in protection mode, not sharing mode.
I realized yesterday that we only have a few days left in the radiation center and that I would really regret not finding out what types of cancers our friends have. I'm not sure why, but in my mind, I can have 25 days worth of casual conversation with these people but until I find out what type of cancer they are living with, it will all seem empty. I don't know if that makes sense at all. But finding it out, in my mind, would close the loop. I just had to find the courage to ask them THE question.
So, yesterday I finally asked a woman that we've seen for almost four weeks now. I know a lot about her, except for the type of cancer she has. She's white, slender and about 45 years old with straight, strawberry blonde hair and bangs. She looks like Lindsay Lohan when she was in the Parent Trap; except at 45 years old and minus the wear and tear of anorexia and a drug addiction. While this womans' husband has shown up a few times, she often comes alone. She's quiet and down-to-earth with a sarcastic sense of humor, and she's ready to get the hell out of treatment.
She and I were chatting yesterday while Bryan was in radiation and I decided there was no better time than the present to ask about her cancer. So I simply said, "Where's your tumor?" My breath almost caught in my throat, but I choked the words out. She didn't hesitate to answer: "On my pelvis." So, after all these weeks of chatting I finally had my answer: she had pelvic cancer. I didn't even know there was such a form of cancer, which is horribly naive of me. But I simply had never heard of it. She has 16 days left of radiation and can't wait to be done. Like many other people in the radiation center, she has things to do and a life to lead. Her cancer is merely an inconvenience, but it turns out there are a lot of "inconvenient tumors" out there.
It might seem silly, but just finding the strength to ask this woman about her tumor was a huge stepping stone for me. Living with and answering questions about Bryan's health is one thing, but turning the tables and having in-depth conversations with near-strangers about their bodies, their tumors and their lives (all incredibly intimate and sensitive topics to discuss), has really helped. We've been welcomed into a community that thrives on LIFE. While all of us are tired, fatigued, stressed out and scared, there is another, bigger part of us that realizes that we're here to live, to survive and to thrive. That we all have a newfound experience in common, and until you've experienced cancer, you can only feel for us, but not truly with us. There's a serious comfort knowing that these people "get it." But like I said before, if I could have it my way, I'd wish that none of our friends or family ever have to experience what we're experiencing. But since we are in thick of it, I feel really blessed to have met the people we consider our "radiation friends." To share their stories and to have earned their trust. I know that at the end of next week we'll all go our separate ways and we won't necessarily know where they will go or what will happen to them, but that's not the point. The point is that right now, when we need each other most, we're all in it together.
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