V's Version

Lunch on the Outpatient Oncology Unit

Chair number one can’t keep chicken broth down. She apologizes for interrupting our lunch with her retching. We instinctively reach out to her – insisting that it’s OK. We’ve all been there. We implore: “Don’t be sorry.”

Chair number two likes to eat only local organic raw vegetables. Her husband drives her from Monterey and brings her a special lunch. She swears by her diet and asks if I notice a difference in my well-being when I ingest toxic pesticides. We strike up a conversation about personal responsibility and the power of positive thought.

Chair number three recognizes me. She saw me when I was first diagnosed with cancer and remarks how amazing it is that I have survived. She tells the others that I was very, very sick and they should have seen me. She shares her knowledge of wigs and we compare outrageous medical bills. She remembers with sadness and frustration all the things she used to be able to do but I can see that her beautiful mane of silver has returned and she still has a lot to contribute – including a few good books.

Chair number four is me. Lorna Doone cookies for desert and then a scare for the nurse when the machine reads my blood pressure as 104 over 12! Everyone is relieved to find it 99 over 53 on the second try. The pooled blood product makes me cold from the inside out. My heart flutters as the viscous liquid is infused through my central line.

Chair number five served in World War II and feels fine but the doctor says that he has problems and needs a blood transfusion. For the first time in his life, he tries to eat lunch with his left hand so that he can keep the line of blood going into the right arm still.

Chair number six holds his jacket close to his chest. His young bald head is uncovered and smooth. It is a reminder that disease does not discriminate on the basis of age. He looks me in the eye and smiles as I gladly relinquish my carrot raisin salad to him.

Chair number seven teaches me a new trick. He warms the tubing by putting it under his clothes – next to the skin on his belly. “It’s surprising how much we can endure,” he tells me. We talk about the virtues of laughter and I thank him for changing the quality of my life with the tubing trick.

Nurses take turns attending the cacophony of alarm bells. They bring blankets warmed in an oven. They carry trays in and out, change our dressing, take our temperatures, bring basins and water and medicines. They run between the room of chairs and the room of beds. Every space is filled with people and poles. Asked when the calm day is, the answer comes on the run: “It’s hit or miss. You never know what it will be like in here.”

But I can see what it is like.


It is like a flotilla of life preservers in the fury of stormy seas.
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It is like a hushed locker room when the coach prepares the team for the biggest game of the year.
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It is like a group of kids reaching back across a log bridge as the last ones steady their steps over the river.
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It is like flowers of courage and compassion in a garden of collective wisdom.


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Labels: oncology cancer survivor IVIG IGg Paraneoplastic Pemphigus PNP