Cancer Club

The first time I had labs drawn at the cancer center I could see the people in the waiting room eyeing me up. I sat in my corner with my iPad and waited. A women came and sat right next to me and tried to initiate a conversation. It wasn't that I was trying to be antisocial, I just wasn't sure I was ready to be a part of the "cancer club." I politely responded to her questions and next thing I knew I was hearing how she has had bone marrow transplants, was never supposed to live, and has been coming to the cancer center for I don't know how many years.

I know that I had a deer in headlights look in my eyes as I realized that I would have to keep coming to the cancer center for follow-up care even after my treatments were done (I don't know why this hadn't occurred to me before). As my stomach sank, the woman kept chattering away and a few other people in the waiting room chimed in. Then the moment I had been trying to avoid happened...They wanted to know what kind of cancer I had and if I was new. They made sure to let me know that I looked new.

From that point on I have been even more careful about where I sit and how I act. Geoff laughs because the chemotherapy waiting room has to be the chattiest and friendliest waiting room in the hospital. I agree with him, but I prefer the radiation waiting room. It's not really a waiting room, it's more of a waiting area. It's small and intimate and I usually know the people waiting with me (though I rarely spend more than a minute waiting).

I have talked before about joining Gilda's Club (a cancer clubhouse/support network for the whole family). I still haven't called because I just don't know if how much "cancer club" I want to deal with. I worry as I write this that it sounds like I have a bad attitude and maybe I do. I don't think I do, but maybe I'm not being realistic with myself. Eventually I will join Gilda's Club, just not now. Right now I feel like I have to live with enough cancer, I don't need it to be my social network and entertainment too. It already defines me more than I want it to.

It's odd, because I get told on a daily basis that I don't look like a cancer patient. I mentioned this to one of my good friends this weekend and my friend laughed and said that it would really bad if I did. He's right. If I went from looking normal and healthy to looking like a cancer patient in three weeks that would be really bad, yet with the amount of comments I get, I feel guilty. Sometimes I I feel like I should apologize because I'm rocking chemo-radiation.

I have plenty of bad days and I am definitely not myself. I don't like how I feel. I take over 10 supplements a day and I feel like I'm geriatric as I swallow down my wad of pills each morning and night. I've complained before about how much I despise chemo and I don't exactly love radiation.

At the same time, I see that everyone else that comes to radiation comes with someone. I get up early drive myself into Madison, drop my car off with the valet and zip down to the radiation treatment area in the basement. I usually talk with the radiation staff about my kids or their kids and I zip back out. I wave to other people I know, hug them if they are having a bad day, but then I'm off and on my way so I can trade off kids with Geoff so he can get to work.

The most bittersweet part of the whole experience for me is waiting for my car each morning. As I wait for the hospital valet to bring my car around I watch the hospital night shift crew walk from the hospital to the parking ramp. These are my people. I worked with them for four and half years. I always see someone I know. I rarely wait for my car by myself. I almost always get hugs and words of encouragement. It's absolutely wonderful and yet, I wish I was on the other side. I wish I was tired and grumpy and walking out of work. I try not to be, but it's hard to not be envious. I'm a nurse. I don't want to be a patient.

I always knew I had great co-workers, but these people have adopted taking care of me and my family. I actually had to ask for a left-over night so that we could catch up on some on the food in our fridge. They are willing to do anything to help us and I'm overwhelmed by their dedication to "nursing" us back to health.

Last Friday as I got into the elevator to leave after radiation an older man asked me if I was a patient or if I worked at the hospital. I hesitated. I knew how I wanted to answer, but I replied "I'm a patient." His response "it sucks doesn't it?" Of course it does, but at the same time I realize how lucky I am. I understand how he feels, but I don't relate. I don't fit in with the other cancer patients. I don't want to fit in with the other cancer patients. While cancer defines me more than I want it to right now, I'm doing everything I can to make this just another bump in the road.