Another World

A friend reminded me that I hadn't blogged our experience in Boston with the cancer specialists. It was a surreal experience that's hard to describe. It was little like taking a transport to another planet where things are strange and disturbing, with elements that are designed to seem familiar and comforting. (Think of the movie, Total Recall.) When we landed in the main waiting room we had the eerie and curious feeling of being in an unfamiliar world, albeit with humanoid life forms.

It was packed. It's also the area for those waiting for chemo so there were lots of people, lots of noise, lots of movement. A wide variety of hues, forms of dress, reading material. There were those who wore surgical masks and one who wore rubber gloves also. Several styles of wigs and head scarves are evident. Even those whose appearance does not immediately reveal their medical status are betrayed by the blue and white bracelet all patients are forced to wear upon entering. The bracelets announce our names, birth dates and official codes.

I am one of the youngest in the room--I suspect the children are a few blocks away at the children's hospital. They have larger-than-life animal sculptures, bright colors and gigantic fish tanks. We have the quieter, cooler tones of greens and purples and blues in geometric patterns on three different fabrics which adorn the light wood contemporary chairs. Frosted glass partitions separate three seating arrangements to make the large room appear more intimate. It doesn't work. The lighting is pleasantly low. No windows here. I don't think the sidewalk traffic is ready to see this crowd. Those weakened by treatment await their turns in wheelchairs. Most people are serious looking--it's serious business we're there to conduct--but there's a great deal of tenderness also. There are only a few who look sullen; most carry an air of hope in their faces. The staff are extra nice, it seems, so as to not further assault those who have already been assaulted by illness. Fellow patients and supportive family also make allowances for each other.

I try to read something work-related but I sit with a 3-inch binder on my lap containing my medical history since February convieniently organized into 10 category tabs. The large binders carried by only a small handful of patients mark those of us who are new to the process and are still exchanging information with our doctors. My business card section is up to 12 contacts. Regulars sport a much more compact folder with just the essentials.

In between appointments, I try to get some air at the Harvard Medical School bookstore around the corner. I find Marlo Thomas' latest offering on the right words at the right times interesting until my "cancer patient" bracelet peeks out from my warm-up suit I have worn for convenience. I look around quickly to note if someone has seen that I am an escaped patient, and return the book to its display.

My bracelet shown to the security guard allows me re-entry into the hospital. Security is tight; there are several stations of complimentary beverages. NotherFrog has been napping in the much quieter waiting room of the "Complementary Medicine" wing of the hospital. It has a large fish tank and three fascinating metal mobiles. It also has interns assuring us that the person we have an appointment with will be available.

I am told that "being a cancer patient" is my new "occupation." I appreciate the analogy since it seems to be taking a growing amount of time and energy to keep up with this new position. Since I endeavor to do any job well--including selling sausage at the Oktoberfest back in Forth Worth--I continue to research the disease. Much of what is written in popular media pertains to post-menopausal women, so it's good to have experts who can translate things for my situation. Much, they admit, they do not know, but I appreciate that they are willing to discuss and debate the latest studies, the rumors, the future possibilities. We learned a lot and the executive director told me how important it was to keep dancing as a method of stress reduction.