The calm

There's a certain calm in an oncology office.  No one is upset or angry because they've had to wait, they aren't grumbling because it's too hot or too cold or because their needle stick hurt more than normal or because their labs are taking longer to run or because their favorite chair was taken.

If you're a patient in that office, you're just happy to be alive.

I still see my oncologist every 3-4 months for routine bloodwork and a physical examination.  And, almost like clockwork, I start to question my health before these appointments.  A bruise that I've seen lingering a little too long or an enlarged lymph node or just being overly tired.  Self-research is dangerous and I've learned that Dr. Google is the worst form.  There's very little that's been published on CLL in patients of my age, and even less on what happens when (not if) there's a relapse.  I'm not cured, they don't know what caused my disease, and they don't know when it will return nor in what form.

Because my doctor is great at what she does, she's very busy and usually running behind, meaning that I spend quite a bit of time waiting in a quiet room on the days of my appointment.  After the pleasantries are exchanged with the receptionists (they always remember me by name) and the medical assistants, I usually have some time to myself to reflect.  I reflect on what I was doing this time eight years ago ... I'd just met Mike, was going through chemo and thinking about the future.  I reflect on what a blessing the last eight years have been ... engaged, married, two beautiful daughters, a roof over our head and financially stable.  Then my mind wanders into dark places ... when will the cancer return?  How would it look if I was going through chemo?  Who would help with the girls?  What would I miss?  Would they be able to get me to a state of remission again?  Would I be alive at the end of the fight?  The what-ifs usually start to overwhelm me just as my doctor makes her way to my room and then the calm sets in again.  She reviews my labs, performs the physical exam and we talk about any of the random symptoms or concerns that I've noted since my last visit.  We always end up talking about our children and catching up on random happenings in our lives like old friends.

Unless you've been there, I don't think you can understand exactly what it's like to have this constant fear in the back of your mind.  And that's OK.  Everyone has their own battles.  I don't know what it's like to live with depression, or be be an armed forces veteran, or to live with a chronic condition that affects your everyday life, or to want children with a passion only to have reproductive problems; my specialty is an incurable cancer.  What's important is that we all band together for each other in this crazy world ... a kind thought, an encouraging word, a prayer, a hug, showing empathy, or offering support.  Everyone has a struggle and it's easy to judge, but it's a lot easier to support.

I pass the treatment room on my way out of the office and generally linger there for half a second before moving on.  Everyone is hooked up to an IV, some don't have their hair, most look tired and some look weak; but they all have hope in their eyes and a smile on their face.  I wish society were more like the patients at the oncologist's office: happy to be alive, hopeful, patient, and understanding ... and I feel lucky that I'm surrounded by people that share these same beliefs and lift me up on a daily basis.

My next appointment happens to fall on my EIGHT year remission birthday ... I think I'll celebrate by taking cupcakes to the treatment room and spreading a little cheer.  And maybe, even if just for a minute, someone else's "what ifs" will disappear.