The Heavy Wait

The ambiance in the Radiation Therapy Waiting Room at the Cancer Center is heavy with grim anticipation. It is a quiet, somber place.


Yesterday afternoon, after Sherry was called for her time alone in that coldly mechanical room with hot invisible beams being projected into her head, I was in the waiting room with a young woman who had accompanied an older, rather sullen gentleman who had also been called for radiation.  We were the only ones there and her glance at me made the silence particularly awkward.

“Been a long day?” I asked. She smiled weakly and told me that she and her grandfather had been there all day.

“Did you travel far? I continued.

“From Sandpoint.” she replied, “It’s quite a drive with the construction, but it isn’t too bad. My mother and I trade off driving my grandfather down.”

I thought about how that aligned with our drive of about 10 minutes—and that’s against the wind and catching the traffic lights wrong.

Today, the waiting room was nearly full. Maybe four or five chairs were empty. This meant that it was impossible to be seated unless it was right next to someone else. I had learned that the waiting room protocol was that when you took a seat it was polite to leave an empty chair between you and whoever was already seated. Sherry and I did find two seats together and sandwiched ourselves in between occupied chairs.

I asked Sherry if she wanted anything. The Cancer Center has the room well stocked with coffee, tea, various instant beverages, and a refrigerator filled with juices and a variety of flavors of Ensure. I thought of Sherry’s weight loss and asked her if she wanted an Ensure. She declined initially, but I pressed on. “Have you ever had it before? Why don’t you try it?” She relented, and I went to the refrigerator, carefully sliding by a woman hunched over in her wheel chair.  She was reading an article on eye make-up in a fashion magazine. I scanned the options in the refrigerator. I quickly dismissed the strawberry Ensure, but stopped at the vanilla that promised to be “home made flavor.” I brought it over to Sherry.

She sipped it. “Not bad! If it were hot it would be like a latte, or at least a steamer. I wonder if they have a microwave around here?” I sensed that the lack of filters brought on by her daily doses of steroids might be kicking in. Without addressing anyone in particular, but looking at me, Sherry announced, “They certainly should have a microwave around here, they microwave everything else!”

Everyone else in particular heard the words and pondered the thought. Smiles softened the space between, and a fresh sense of us warmed the room. It’s not that everyone got up and danced or anything like that, but people did begin to talk with each other.

When Sherry returned from her turn in the microwave, and we prepared to go, good byes, and have a nice days were exchanged. Then we drove home, thankful for the 10 minute drive and for the access we have to state of the art treatment.