Today I had a doctors appointment and my Zometa drip. So this morning I voted, dropped Trent at school and Ian at Cindy's, then headed to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. Throughout my cancer adventure, I have been treated by doctors in four different cities, affiliated with four different hospital systems and the logistics are all pretty much the same: hurry up and wait. It was the same through my original chemo, all my radiation treatments and every surgical visit. I have been getting the Zometa drip since May 2008; first monthly, then quarterly, and recently every other month. I know the drill. Scan my card, get my vitals taken, sit and wait for the nurse to call me, meet with the doctor, head upstairs, scan my card, sit and wait to be called, wait for an IV, get my drip, and head home.
Sitting in the waiting rooms is always a very humbling experience as they are packed with people. They all come hoping to find the key to unlock the mystery of their cancer and the cancers there are as diverse as the people waiting. There are children with their parents and parents with their children. Some are black, some are white, some are Hispanic, some are Asian: cancer does not discriminate. They wear wigs, hats, scarves, or just let their bald heads shine. Some are in wheelchairs, some have walkers, and some just shuffle along. And, when I get frustrated because I have been there for hours, I try to look around and think about how long some of those people are going to be there.
Today I sat across from a woman that I would guess was in her mid-fifties. She was in a wheel chair and was very pale. I'm not sure if she was wearing a wig because I am not very good at the, 'is it a wig or is it hair game.' (Don't judge me...I know everyone in that waiting room is playing the same game...it is hard not to.) She was sitting with her daughter who looked to be about college age. The daughter was on her cell phone making plans with friends and trying to figure out about when they would be done at the hospital. It was about noon and the mom looked at her daughter and said, "I don't think you understand. We probably won't be out of here until five or six o'clock." The daughter's mouth dropped open and her face fell. The mother rolled her eyes and smiled at me. I just smiled back. On Christmas Eve 2003 Brad gave me that same startled look when, after three hours of waiting, seeing the doctor, then receiving pre-medication, the nurse hung a giant bag on my IV pole and said cheerfully, "OK now this will drip for four hours and then you will be all done." We still laugh about that chemo trip! Please note: if you ever volunteer to accompany someone to chemo, be prepared for a LONG day regardless of what hospital, outpatient center, or oncology unit you plan on visiting!
After my twenty minute drip today I stood up, walked two blocks to the parking garage and drove myself home. Even in the cold drizzle, I couldn't help but feel so lucky. Comparatively speaking, I am in great shape.
Tonight I feel like I am getting the flu. Tomorrow afternoon at work I will say, 'gosh I feel really yucky,' and then I will remember that I just got a Zometa drip. By Friday I will feel fine. In the grand scheme of things I had a short day and will have a quick bounce back. Since my cancer is stable, I will not have blood work again until the end of July and will see my doctor and get my drip again the first week of August.
This evening I am taking it easy, watching TV with the kids, a blanket on my legs and a cat in my lap. Before I close my eyes tonight, I will be sure to thank God for all his blessings and ask that he look out for all those 'sick' cancer patients in the waiting rooms. I hope they will get to experience life on the other side of chemotherapy and find the key they are looking for.
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