The Waiting room

        Written by Michael Miller

         My first impression of an infusion room was a bit of a let-down. Like most things, I had spent a great deal of time developing a mental image of this place. I’d had ample time to build it in my head, weeks of excruciating and embarrassing radiation, followed by months of oral Chemotherapy had made certain of that. I anticipated a room full of fellow cancer patients; each supporting the other with stories of hope and the old, “I’ve been there” type of wisdom.

         I had prepared myself for smiling faces beaming beneath colorful scarves and smooth heads. I wanted, (no, I needed) to see inspirational T-shirts and little rubber-band bracelets, I needed a” we can do it” attitude, I needed a “pep” rally, I really did.

I’m embarrassed to admit; I expected a great deal more than what awaited me in this room. I was not prepared for the silence and solemn overtones. As I walked in, I was immediately struck by the heaviness. Each person’s sorrow, each person’s agony became sentient, joining forces with that of the others until the very air possessed a thick and ominous presence. This room where I hoped for a sense of common cause, felt more for-boding than all the others before, and I was scared to my marrow bones.

As I scanned the room, I found most souls clinging doggedly to an old and outdated system of class separation. Humankind seems to possess the inimitable ability to look upon our person as some-what superior than those of the general populace. A trait truly damned, and unique in all God’s creatures.

Even here in this room, where you would think the playing field leveled; the empty chair rule still applies, perhaps even more-so. For many, the barriers are still in place, a lifetime of futile labor, leaving lonely souls amidst the company of fellow sufferers.

It's easy to see once you know what to look for; it's all here, upper, middle, and lower classes. Separated by an invisible; yet all too real boundary system. Chairs serve as makeshift markers; tactile objects separating one group from the other. A makeshift neutral zone that no-one with the slightest hint of propriety dares cross.

I ponder this in my head for a while; perhaps we are hardwired so to speak. Driven to seek the company of those we identify as equal to ourselves; or perhaps worse still, separate ourselves from those deemed “less worthy.”.

What benefits come from this practice, comfort, a sense of belonging? Birds of a feather if you will, or misery loves company if you won’t. These notions are best left to professionals and theorists’, best not to be considered by simple minds such as my own.

I somehow found comfort in this revelation; and taking it upon myself, decided to quietly observe such odd behavior, and take notes. So…journal in hand, I began my search for a place to sit.

I located a suitable observation point in a far corner, then having made my way through the crowd, began to make myself comfortable in my new nest. On each side of me I secured a couple of empty chairs, my boundaries went up, my de-militarized zone activated, and I settled in, yes, yes, I know, I gave in to peer pressure. I was my own little group.

I was certain to make eye contact with as many people as possible, an unspoken warning, this was my spot and I see you. Each person was carefully scanned, newcomers were of “particular” interest as they may intrude upon individual territories. I’m sure others began to take note of me as well, the strange man in the corner, nervously scratching in his journal. I’m sure they wondered as I glanced up, but only briefly, staring over my glasses as I scanned the room.

In doing so, I began to appreciate how utterly unique we are, each of us carry our burden in different ways. Some hide the burden deep inside, hidden from the world, fearful of displaying the first hint of weakness lest the wolves should notice and consider them targets.

Others of a some-what more extroverted character; make little to no effort to hide their cancer, quite the opposite really. Strutting around wrapped in T-shirts festooned with ribbons of every color, reminiscent of peafowl vying for attention. An effort to bring needed recognition and understanding to the struggles of so many I hope, but the cynic in me wonders about their motives.

Sadly, I’m forced to admit; I’m not quite sure at this point where I fit in. Perhaps there’s not much of a choice really; each are unique; our personalities directing the battle.

As I sit at my perch, observing the individual dramas playing out before me. I can’t help but feel a little like a voyeur of sorts; a stranger invading the private battles fought before me. I find myself comparing them to my own, rating them, using my own struggles as a benchmark. Convincing myself most are doing the very same thing at this very same moment.

A few “particular” personalities stand out from the crowd, and since we shall all see each other every other week, this story will evolve and unfold. I follow their progress as well as my own, their story will be one of outward observance, mine will be a much more intimate narrative.

Our first player in this rather macabre production shall become known now and forever as Princess Pea. A frail young lady clearly in her twenties, she was flanked on either side by whom I can only assume were her parents. They were quite obviously (in their view) upper class as evidenced by the designer clothing, quaffed hair, and designer coffee, which all three held tightly in their hands. Her brightly colored and pedicured nails held an expensive phone.

Her smooth scalp was tightly covered with a black toboggan, a popular “Brand name” boldly plastered to the front. This poor girl was obviously going to great lengths to conceal her disease; yet the pale skin, dark eyes, and gaunt frame betrayed the horrible battle raging inside her. The trio promptly isolated themselves, (as I did), sitting far from the others in the room. They were constantly whispering back and forth, for the most part they were rather stoic, however, occasionally a faint giggle would slip through their neutral zone. Only to be caught by the ears of others sitting just outside the border of empty chairs.

As they built their invisible walls the trio made no eye contact with anyone. It seemed as if they were trying their best to pretend, they were the only ones in the room, or somewhere else entirely, but then again, every person here was pretending that very same thing.

The patients in this part of the room shared a remarkable resemblance. Most wore their name brand clothing; tubes from Port-a-caths and I.V. access points were discreetly hidden beneath layers of L.L. Bean, Lands’ End, and North Face, and so on. Smartly dressed and smelling of cologne, laptops and other devices sat in their laps, providing credence to the perpetual downward gaze. All pretending they were somewhere else…anywhere else.

In stark contrast lay the other end of the room. Here, a person would be hard pressed to find distinctive or gawdy apparel. There are no cups of designer coffee here, neatly quaffed hair gives way to clean but pulled back or quickly combed hair.

Not from lack of drive or personal hygiene oh no; but from the exhaustion accompanied with the burden of anxiety. Every available moment spent fighting the cancer invading their bodies. All the while simultaneously struggling to keep the lights on, and the bills paid. Some hold their phones tightly to their ears’, faint conversations about baby-sitters and time off from work came be heard, matters of health insurance and (God forbid) life insurance float in the air. For most, including yours truly, the battle is financially devastating. Fear of defeating cancer only to return to a life devasted by financial ruin; black, barren, and scorched, like fire through a cane field.

Now we come to the “other” end of the room, across any number of empty chairs and imaginary borders, a real separation of social class in full display. A microcosm of our culture laid bare for all to see. This end of the room is home to the other end of the spectrum. No, you won’t find this on any cancer web site or news reel, but trust me, it’s here just the same.

It’s here another lady catches my attention; first impressions expose her advancing years. But with closer inspection I soon realized she was obviously younger than myself; yet her face and body scared by a life spent with-in the cracks of the system. A system built of traps, easy to fall into, yet damn near impossible to crawl out of. Years of worry, hard labor and tough decisions have left her body frail and battle worn.

Dressed from head to foot in ill-fitting and wrinkled second-hand clothes, her hair hung long, unwashed, and uncombed, while her raspy voice carried loudly throughout the room. By her side sat a gentleman I can only assume to be her husband, his body also bearing the marks from a life of labor. He made no attempt to whisper, and his loud voice traveled even farther than her own. But he loved her and was deeply worried about her, his affection was plain to see.

He was by all accounts extremely attentive to her every need, quickly fetching whatever object she might request or stroking her hair. A mason jar filled with some manner of brown liquid was held tightly in the couple's hands, and they sipped from those jars constantly. Without a doubt coffee… but a far cry from the designer cups found at the other end of the room, and I was struck by the sharp contrast.

However, without a doubt, the most memorable thing about this pair is the odor. A strong sickening odor of cigarettes, overpowering and offensive to all. A large perimeter enveloped the pair like a cloud. The smell of moldy ashtray invaded the senses of any unfortunate soul what may happen to be with-in proximity. The scent caused several to move, borders, empty seats, and all; to another far less offensive section of the room.

As I looked about this room, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by our natural talent for personal isolation. Even in situations such as these, we are powerless to resist the urge to curl up in our own little nests. Alone and separate from the world, we suffer, drawn by a deep-seated need for solitude.

As a young man I was once told a story by an old preacher friend of mine, trust me, nothing original comes from this old noggin, you can be sure of that. Looking around this room, and given my present company, I feel it fits nicely.

         Of course, we all know the game hide and seek; but this old man told me of a game called “Sardines.”

The game plays just the opposite of hide and seek; the person chosen, “it,” would go and hide. It was then the responsibility of the other players to find the one who had concealed himself. As each person found “it,” they would get in the hiding place with him. This would continue until there was no more room in the hiding spot. The entire goal was to not be the last one searching. Sooner or later the entire group would tumble out in a pile, laughing and giggling uncontrollably.

There is a lot of wisdom in that story, and I sure no small amount of cheesy optimism. Here in this of all rooms, why are we not playing “Sardines?” Why do we seek our own hiding place? We need the laughter, we need the company, certainly at this point in our lives more than ever.

Yet, here we all sit, hidden in our safe spots, hoping not to be found, but deep inside we are begging to be found. I need a game like this about now, I might go as far as to say we all do. Come on folks…any one up for a game? I’ll be “it.”