Finding Love and Humanity in the Radiation Waiting Room

Many people have written about cancer and their experiences. All have been personal, caring, empathetic, loving, other-centered, humbling, tear-filled and joy-filled. All an event of dying and a resurrection. A mystery. Something we cannot always see immediately. But it is something we can be attuned to through practice. Our vision depends on our sight.

This came to me from my first meeting with the radiation team for breast cancer.

While sitting in the waiting room by myself, I decided to just sit back and watch the people coming in and out of the unit. I saw love in action. Spouses taking care of each other, lovingly pushing their loved one in a wheelchair without complaint, offering a hand in support, being there in need, sometimes funny and clowning and sometimes caring. Always other-centered. The experience of the family member is frightening and challenging. The pain of the caregiver etched in their faces and trying to hide it from the loved one. Each one is experiencing what Benedict XVI called the “liturgy of life.”

While waiting to be called, I was attuned to the couple next to me. The mother was on the edge of her seat, and the father was sitting with his back resting on the chair. She was in pain, staring at the door to the lab, and both were waiting, sometimes impatiently. He was unable to cope with his son’s illness and was joking with everyone who sat down. Finally, through the door, their son came walking out of the radiation center. On his chest, a person could see the port for chemo peeking out of his half-buttoned shirt. The mother ran up to him and tried to comfort him. A woman sat alone, sitting on the edge of her seat and just facing the wall, staring into space and lost in her thoughts. A big man came into the center and went to the front desk to check in. All I heard him say was, “At least I am sober today.”

The man next to me asked, “Are you here with your husband?” I said no and that I am a religious sister, a nun.
He said, “I thought that there were very few of you guys left.” I said, “There aren’t that many as before, and we might be on the endangered species list, but we are not extinct yet.”

He told me that he had prostate cancer and had just started treatment. He asked me what I had, and I said breast cancer. Our conversation was short because I was up next for my treatment.

Treatment consisted of 15 sessions of radiation, 5 times a week for 3 weeks. Every day I would get up early since I was number 2 on the list for radiation. Every day after our first conversation, my friend would always come and sit by me since he was number 3 on the schedule. He would talk, and I would listen.

I would come in and sit in a big overstuffed chair, relaxing before the treatment. He would come in about 3 minutes after me and see where I was sitting. He would find a chair and tell me about his hopes, fears about cancer, an upcoming surgery, how he planned to mow the half-acre of grass that he owned, and plans for flying in his plane. Every once in a while, I would ask questions to keep him talking. This was a regular event for the 15 sessions I was there.

On my last day of treatment, he came in and told me about his vacation plans. I did listen attentively. I told him it was my last day of treatment. His affect went from smiling to sadness. He had found a friend.

At that moment, the nurse called my name out. As I was walking to the door, he yelled at the nurse, “Make sure you take good care of this woman. She is a good woman.” The nurse said she would.

At that moment, I turned around and walked up to him to shake his hand and said, “Good luck to you and many blessings on you.” And then I walked in for my last treatment session.

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