Cell Mates

The patient lounge area in a radiation oncology office is an interesting place.  There is a unique camaraderie among people waiting for their daily dose of gamma rays. I liken the dynamic to what one might find in the holding cell of a prison (minus the fear of rape or other bodily harm, of course).  Our jail is not made of concrete and iron bars.  The cells that incarcerate us are comprised of damaged and mutated DNA. They are invisible to the naked eye, but hold us captive just the same.

Like inmates, we do not wear our own clothes.  Instead, we sit there in the ill-fitting, oddly colored institutional uniform known as a hospital gown.  Then, the inevitable questions begin:

·         “For what kind of cancer are they treating you?” (“What are you in for?”) 

·         “What does your treatment protocol entail?” (“How long is your sentence?”)

·         “Is this your initial treatment experience?” (“Are you a first time or a repeat offender?”)

·         “What’s your prognosis?” (“Do you stand a chance of parole or are you in for life?”)

The old timers share tips with the newbies to help their time go smoothly.  I was a recent recipient of such counsel.  Most mornings I wait with a gentleman whom I will call Hank (not his real name).  My best guess puts Hank in his early 60’s, and he calls me “kid”.  He’s undergoing treatment for esophageal cancer, and has a tumor where his esophagus meets his stomach.  He’s a year into his “sentence” and doesn’t expect a release anytime soon.  Hank is gruff, but sweet; the kind of guy you’d describe as “crusty” if he were a Navy Chief.  Though, when I told him about my promising prognosis, he grew a little wistful, like someone facing hard time might feel when meeting the recipient of a full pardon.

Hank has shared the following pearls of wisdom with me:

·         Demand a port (a small medical appliance installed beneath the skin. A catheter connects the port to a vein) to avoid the constant barrage of needles required to withdraw bodily fluids and insert various poisons (chemo).

·         If I can’t get a port, avoid a “certain” lab technician, who can’t seem to find a vein on the first stick to save his life.

·         If I feel nauseous, eat bananas.  They won’t settle the nausea, but they are one of the least repulsive foods to regurgitate, because they taste the same coming up as they do going down. (I didn’t have the heart to tell Hank that I learned that lesson from Gregg when he was in flight school.)

Hank is nearing the end of his radiation treatments.  I probably won’t see him again after this week. I plan to thank him tomorrow morning and let him know his advice hasn’t fallen on deaf ears.  

I hope to one day see him on the “outside”, beyond the confines of cancer, walking free.