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I check in at reception, get my wristband, and go to the waiting room. It’s filled with men, women, and children who come and go as if they’re playing musical chairs. The teenager who’d come down in the elevator with me starts to pass out. His mother calls out for help, and a white-coated man rushes to grab the kid before he hits the floor. This must not be an unusual occurrence because no one pays much attention to it. Or maybe it’s because I’m a writer that I watch it all — the mother sagging against the wall for support, then straightening up to shuffle alongside the wheelchair, her hand hovering over the boy’s shoulder.
I sit down and take out a notebook. Early on, I started writing what was happening around me and how it makes me feel. It’s helped me get through the appointments. I look up and see a well-dressed man, about sixty-five years old, being guided into the room by a younger woman. They sit down next to me, and I hear from their conversation that she’s his daughter, and he is now blind.
“Everyone tells me I look good,” he says. “Well, I sure can’t tell if they’re lying to me.” They both laugh a little. She says something that makes him laugh. They act very cool, as if his catastrophic illness, or the therapy to treat it, isn’t killing him. I think how brave they are and that I’d like to be that way.
Ten minutes later a nurse calls a name. “Yes,” the man says and stands. The nurse comes over and, not knowing he is blind, says, “Follow me.” The daughter makes a frantic signal to indicate that her father can’t see. The nurse blushes and touches his arm. “This way,” she says.
They leave, and others fill their seats. Cancer knows no bounds. In the times I have sat in this waiting room, I’ve heard Russian accents, Mexican, Israeli, German, and Arabic. I’ve seen black and white and yellow and every shade in between — especially those who’ve just had an infusion, which has turned their faces to gray.
I begin to feel like a fake. I have a wristband on that identifies me as a cancer patient, and I had an operation, but I’m not suffering like these valiant people around me. I go months without thinking about cancer. I don’t have to return to this basement week after week. I’m healthy and so confident of a future that I can complain about gaining weight… not while I’m in the cancer center, of course.
I finally get called. I go into the examination room, and the transformation is complete. I’m a cancer zombie again. This sterile, cold room with its diagrams and cancered models of female parts is where I was given the diagnosis. That moment starts instant-replaying in my head.
It’s better when the young resident comes in. She asks me questions with a caring and attentive air. She asks me how my sex life is. Without blushing, I reassure her that it is good. She is noticeably pregnant, and I tell her about my newborn granddaughter’s birth a month earlier.
The doctor breezes in, trying to look like she doesn’t have a dozen patients waiting for her. As she examines me, she asks what book I am reading. We always talk books.
When she finishes the exam, I sit up. She is pleased, finding everything healthy. “You’ll get the PAP smear results in a week,” she tells me. “I’m sure the results will be negative.”
I get dressed and give the room a farewell once-over. In the hall I walk to the elevator, keeping my eyes on the linoleum floor, not looking to the left or the right. It’s become a ritual of safe passage.
I come out of the building and stand on the curb, waiting for my car. The warmth of the sun soothes me. I hadn’t realized how cold I was. My hands are like ice.
For some reason, tears fill my eyes. I really can’t tell you why.
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About Cyndy Muscatel
