Every other Monday morning, I go hang out with cancer patients.
It’s not because I’m doing some noble volunteer work. It’s not because I work at a hospital (at least I don’t any more). It’s not even because I’m researching for a writing project.
Thankfully, unlike them, I do not have cancer. But like them, I do go to have medicine drip into my veins intravenously in hopes it’ll improve my health.
For Crohn’s disease, these IV infusions are the proverbial “big guns” in treatment. When regular medications and dietary changes don’t improve symptoms, biologics are in order, so here you are.
It’s humbling and terrifying all at once to be in the company of such warriors, these patients with these illnesses. (Side note: Crohn’s is a life-threatening illness as well); to be checking in, waiting, getting pre-treatment blood work and eventually stretching out in our recliners in the infusion room next to these brave souls.
This week, my IV mates were some gentlemen. Last time, it was an elderly gal who spent the morning hooked up and quietly reading her Kindle. These fellows were silent, one in khakis and an oxford shirt and loafers. He sat cross-legged reading Tolkien from an “old-fashioned” paperback (an actual book!). He appears to be in his 50s with peculiar spectacles that he peers over on occasion and we all offer empathetic half smiles to each other.
It’s an apparent unspoken understanding that none of us wants a reason to be here. I imagine, based on his wardrobe, overall look, and briefcase, that he could be a college professor. His IV bag is nearly identical to mine and he looks otherwise healthy as IBD patients often do–it’s our insides that are sick. I wonder if he’s a fellow IBDer. When his treatment is complete, he smiles and nods towards me and is on his way.
The younger man must be in his 30s, I decide. He looks less well and I’m convinced I’m right about that. His chairside table holds Gatorade, a cell phone, and several pills. And he has a bag of medicine and a bag of blood hanging from his IV pole. He has a beard, freckles, occasional chills, and, I’m sure, an interesting story.
I always want to hear someone’s story and most of the time, strangers freely tell me without asking. A waiting room is often the perfect setting for folks to share their stories. You’re vulnerable there. I wanted to know these patients’ stories. But what’s the way to approach that exactly? “What are you in for” somehow doesn’t seem appropriate or kind. Although, I so want to dig deeper and know their stories, (I always do…everyone has a story waiting to be told!) you never know who’s receptive to that and who just wants to be left alone.
Another patient takes the chair of the possible professor. Immediately, he breaks the silence. He’s there on the three-month anniversary of his leukemia diagnosis. He went in for a routine doctor’s appointment this morning only to be told he urgently needs an infusion. A bag of blood is hung for his IV and he settles in while his wife goes to let her employer know that instead of needing just the morning off, she’ll be gone the entire day. He’s a big sports fan, he says, and we talk hockey for a bit. His willingness to chat and optimistic personality, draws out the younger man and he shares his story.
He has a genetic disorder and had to endure chemo to treat it, but he’s still battling. Because of massive steroids, he’ll need a hip replacement. He continues to get various treatments…three days a week. He tells me he’ll be there the better part of the afternoon and when he says this, it’s only 11 a.m. “Will they feed you lunch?” I ask. He tells me they won’t but there’s usually a snack basket with chips in it. I feel bad and want this to be changed. We’re there to get healthy. Missing a meal when your body is already so compromised, isn’t healthy. I know all about blood sugar tanks. I want to change the system for him so he can have some nourishment while he endures these long treatments. Thing #2 I’d change: Put a television in the room. It helps occupy the mind and pass the time. And as the leukemia patient points out, would sure be nice today especially: It’s the Detroit Tiger season opener. It’s the little things…
The big things are the betrayals that go on in our bodies that brought each of us here, all very different illnesses. But we wish and pray that our bodies will heal and act as they should.
The alarm on my IV system sounds and the message flashes that the infusion is complete. Before long, my nurse Debra joins me and removes the line and I sit awhile with the port in my arm. It’s necessary to wait around a half hour or so to ensure I don’t have any adverse reaction. Thankfully, there are none. It was a gamble when I declined the Benadryl this infusion. It makes me so drowsy that I can’t function the entire rest of the day and can’t accomplish anything meaningful. The infusion itself is tiring so adding Benadryl is too much. The men settle in. Conversation has quieted and their eyes are closed. They hear me rouse and put on my jacket and again we exchange smiles, more easily now. I tell them I hope the rest of their collective day goes well and maybe I’ll see them back here, but that I hope for the very best for them each.
I’m elated to return to the waiting room and check out. It’s a sweet sight to see my faithful husband waiting for me. I’m sure these infusion days aren’t easy for him either, the waiting and wondering. I will silently keep each of these nameless patients in my prayers and continue hoping for good news for each of us. I’m reminded how blessed I am. The little things become the big things: The sun is shining, even into the window of the infusion room. The birds are chirping and we’re reminded of new life just as we remember the sacrifice and new life celebrated yesterday on Easter. Spring is here. The sun shines on my face and warms me as we go to the car to leave and go home to my beautiful children, home on holiday from school. We have hope, we all have hope.
