Naive expectations

Another hospital waiting room. My wife and I were sitting next to each other, making idle chit-chat, sipping black coffee. The room had all the hallmarks of your typical waiting room. On the walls were posters with promises about how much the hospital cared about its patients. On the table, there was a pile of old, outdated magazines. They must have been flipped through by hundreds of absent-minded patients, nervously waiting their turn.

I had an appointment to discuss the plan the doctors had come up with for my cancer treatment. My name was finally called and the doctor ushered us into her office. We sat down. She had terrific blue eyes which flared with intellect. She seemed nervous.

“You’re quite young to have cancer,” she said abruptly. This is a sentence I would hear many times over in the months to come. To this day, I still don’t quite know how to respond to it. She moved on quickly and started explaining her plan.

We would start with 3 months of chemotherapy to shrink the tumour. Then, we would have an operation to remove it. I asked her how serious the side effects of the chemotherapy were. She said that many patients continued their lives as normal. The chemotherapy caused minimal interruption. There were even patients who went for 60km bike rides. I was quite surprised to hear this. My father had chemotherapy. I don’t think he ever had the urge to go bike riding during it.

I left her office feeling quite relieved and optimistic. I had a good prognosis and the treatment would be mild. I could live a normal life. Maybe having cancer was not as bad as they said. Maybe I had the cancer-light version, the one without side effects and scary nights wondering whether you would make it out alive. Maybe I was different.

“Are you feeling nauseous?” asked the nurse. I was lying on a reclined bright red chair with an IV sticking out of my arm. It was my first round of chemotherapy. I was sitting in a room with a bunch of elderly people, who also had IVs sticking out of their arms. They looked much more composed. “Yes, I do feel nauseous,” I replied. The first hour of the chemotherapy was rather enjoyable. They put something in there that made me feel like I was three beers in, and I spent most of my time sending inappropriate jokes to my friends. After the first hour, the nausea started creeping in. It got worse and worse. Unfortunately, the nausea continued for the next four days. The first day was the most intense. I spent all my time hugging the toilet, making unflattering noises. Each subsequent week that went by had its own unique flavour of side effects. The chemo definitely kept things interesting, surprising me with something new regularly. I had the whole constellation of possible side effects. They ranged from nausea, dizziness, diarrhoea, fatigue, mouth ulcers, and migraines, all the way up to heart palpitations. The most intriguing one was that I could not touch anything cold, otherwise, I would risk having pain in my hands for the rest of my life.

My body had betrayed me. It had let me down. I expected the chemo to be mild. I was supposed to sail through it, unaffected. Maybe I was not one of the strong ones. Maybe I fell short. Maybe I was different.

During one of my chemotherapy treatments, a friend asked if he could visit. He wanted to bring along his five-year-old daughter. I got along well with her, and I dare to say that I was her favourite among her father’s group of friends. We used to play a game where I’d lift her onto my shoulders and tromp around their garden like a T-Rex.

I was excited to see her.

They were late, having trouble finding the right room. I sat patiently in my bright red recliner, an IV sticking out of my arm. I wondered how she would react to seeing me like this. Was it a good idea for her to come along? Would it scare her?

As they walked through the doorway, our eyes locked immediately. She stopped dead in her tracks, a startled look on her face. Slowly, she began walking towards me again, her eyes fixated on the IV. They drifted up to my face, checking for signs of pain, lingering for a few moments.

“Say hello,” her father instructed. “Hello,” she said nervously. I asked her about school, if she played any sports, and about the new shoes her father had bought her.

While we talked, I noticed her eyes darting to a stack of coloring books. The hospital had left them out for children. I asked if she wanted to draw. She nodded and went to sit in the corner. Her father and I continued talking for a while. I kept glancing over at her. She was coloring a big butterfly that spread across two pages, completely absorbed. She mostly kept within the lines.

Eventually, my friend stood up and told her it was time to leave. She protested a little, saying she wanted to draw some more. As they walked out the door, I said goodbye one last time. She didn’t hear me. She didn’t look back. Her only concern was whether her father would buy her juice on the way home. Before I knew it, I was alone again, sitting in my bright red recliner with an IV sticking out of my arm.

The memory about my interaction with my friends daughter is another memory which stands out to me when I think about my cancer experience. I think it typifies the way people interact with you when they find out you have cancer. In the beginning, there are heartfelt well-wishes and concerns. This fades as time passes. People get distracted by their own lives and all the bright and shiny things in them. You become a forgotten obligation in the chaos of busy days. I don’t blame them. I would probably act the same way. Life carries on, unmoved by your affliction. The hard truth is that someone won’t always be there. A lot of the time, you are going to have to fight this thing on your own. This might unsettle some people. But, I think there is something transformative about being alone in dark places.