FREE NEWSLETTER
The Cancer Center seemed a little bleaker and colder during my last session. My husband usually accompanies me to my sessions but I was alone for the first time.
I noticed the woman in the cubicle next to me, as we had both been there at the same time for the past 4 weeks. She was also alone, getting her treatment, wearing a bonnet- the bonnet type hat many women wear who have lost their hair to chemotherapy.
Conversation isn’t the norm at the center and I settled in my chemo chair, while the staff prepared me. They usually start me off with a drip of Benadryl – just to make me drowsy enough so I won’t be fully aware of what’s going on. The infusion nurse, a nice young man, then says “ok, let’s filler up.”
I had my iPad and a book to distract me, and noticed the woman next to me was engaged with her cell phone. The time passed and, as it happened, we both finished treatment at the same time.
I’m not an intrusive person and tend to be a little on the private side—but there was something about this little woman that was touching. So upon leaving I walked over to her cubicle, gave her my best smile and asked her how she was feeling. We had a pleasant exchange and As I turned around and started to walk away, I felt someone tugging on the bottom of my jacket. I turned around and it was my bonny bonnet lady who asked me sweetly “will you be here next week?”
It was just a chance human encounter, a sharing of compassion, a little touch of kindness and concern. A reminder that even in our own distress, reaching out to others makes life more pleasant.
I just finished reading the post and all the comments so far. I’m touched by all the kindness shown here, especially by those of you who are currently going through treatment. It seems that no matter the trouble our minds or bodies are experiencing, we can always reach out to others with an encouraging gesture. God bless you all and especially you, Marjorie, for your post and for starting a conversation that is life -affirming.
So gratifying to read your positive comments. Thank you, Linda.
Marjorie, I always made it a point to smile at the patients sitting next to and across from me in both infusion centers where I was treated. I will never forget one woman who responded by striking up a conversation that turned out to be the first of several over a few weeks. She told me she had been through eight clinical trials in eleven years of nonstop treatment. She had lost everything — her husband had left, her kids were gone, her house sold into bankruptcy — and she had moved into a tiny apartment right near the hospital. This was her entire life now. She was Jewish, like me, and once or twice I softly sang her something from Fiddler.
Near the end of my treatment cycle I no longer saw her. Perhaps it was just a schedule change for her. But I don’t think so.
She has stayed in my memory.
And what a memory. I was just thinking that you should have sung to her, when I read your sentence that you did just that. Bet she loved it.
My neighbor’s mother died at home. She was in a semi-coma beforehand. I sang “Beautiful Dreamer” to her—an old fashioned Stephen Foster song, reminiscent of a peaceful lullaby. Music does have charms, Martin, and it soothes the soul.