The radiation machine has been broken off and on since Monday. My husband says he can tell a difference in how it sounds and rotates as it goes around his neck.
The line to get in for treatment is like the lines to get into DisneyWorld in July when school is out for the summer.
I usually wait in the waiting room and chat with my new friends that all have cancer and are waiting for their treatments while he's in there for 45 minutes to an hour getting radiated.
Chris has finished his radiation treatments and I wonder if I will ever see him again. I hope that I do, but not in here. We exchanged phone numbers but you know how those things go...
Sandy I worry about her desperately.
I did get her full name and watch the obituaries in the local newspaper for her name.
What have I become???
Checking the death notices for my friends' names now? How macabre.
It's funny how close you can get to complete strangers in an oncology clinic waiting room and how quickly your heart can be pulled in to them.
Their stories. Their lives. Their hopes.
Now, it's a whole new group of people and I am not so sure I even want to try.
What's the point?
Today, I just sat and shoved my nose in my iPad and didn't even look up. I don't have the energy to be wrapped into so much sadness today. All of the sweet sad people.
This is how the conversations usually go...
"Hi. How is your day? What kind and where is your cancer?"
It's ongoing. Everyone has a sad story about how and when they were diagnosed and their symptoms.
Oprah once said that everyone has a story that will make you cry. I believe that may be magnified in this place. Mostly the clinic is men. I'd say 7 out of 10 are men with cancer.
I beg for a cure.
Tomorrow is chemo day. :(