At this particular chemo session I was joking with my sister about dancing with the pole that my monitor is attached to. Most of the other patients being infused are older than me–in their fifties, sixties or older—and are usually sleeping or look forlorn in some way. I try to get them to laugh or at least crack a smile. Which often times means they’re laughing at my ridiculous goofball antics.
And I’m 100% okay with that. It’s an ice breaker to the saddened stares of what I can only assume means “my goodness she’s so young to be in here.” I’ve yet to see anyone younger than me or relatively my age being treated so far. I honestly hope I don’t see anyone close to my age or younger in the infusion suite.
It’s heartbreaking enough knowing that everyone in there means something to someone. Even if they don’t currently have any family or anyone they’re close to. At one point and time, they were someone’s daughter or son. They may be someone’s sibling, aunt, uncle, mother or father. My story is just one of the many. Each and every one of us in that room has a story to tell. Not just the patients, but the nurses and doctors as well.
The Universe is funny like that, giving us all these experiences to grow from and connect with each other. I won’t miss going through chemotherapy when all of this is said and done. But the nurses in that room–I will miss chatting with them, connecting. If you go the right kind of cancer treatment center, the medical staff there begins to feel more like an extended family with each passing treatment.