Yesterday was a cancer care day that started with a blood test at 7am and ended at 6:30pm with a CT scan. I spent a little over an hour with my oncology team ensuring that I was tolerating the side effects of my different chemotherapies. After receiving two new prescriptions, I headed to bone scan prep and after several hours of waiting for my bones to absorb the radioactive dye, I feel asleep in the scanner. The CT waiting room is large and L-shaped with a fish tank and several TVs. I decided to sit in a sunny spot in a far corner away from the crowd to drink my glass of raspberry contrast dye.
I was sleeping lightly when I heard her whimper; she was in a wheelchair pushed by a big cowboy and wrapped in several blankets so only her anguished cancer face peered out. They settled several chairs behind me and at some point, she stopped her whimpers, but I could feel her eyes. I slowly turned and as I did, I caught her smile as she looked directly at me and nodded. I was in my Indiana Jones outfit, with the hat, leather jacket, and satchel. You laugh, but yesterday as I walked through the internal medicine waiting room I noticed a thin man in a Dr. Seuss Cat in the Hat, hat.
How do you walk on the edge of life? I’ve learned wearing armor to shield myself from the fear and anxiousness of hours of tests and days waiting for results pushes me deep inside where negative self-talk turns nasty. In my Indiana Jones outfit, I was ready for the adventure, open to all the emotions and willing to listen to the stories from other cancer survivors or caregivers. As the CT tech called my name, I turned one last time to tip my hat to the women sitting in her wheelchair buried in blankets. Slowly she raised her hand, smiled and cracked her imaginary whip – she understood what it means to walk on the edge of life, do you?
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