I spent time today in the cafeteria at the clinic where Jilda gets infusion treatments. Today was number 14 for her. She didn't whine or complain, she just takes a warm blanket and sinks into the big green chair and takes it like a warrior.
The cafeteria is an open area adjacent to a hallway that leads to the offices of hundreds of doctors. The halls start buzzing just after eight on most days. The place seems to have a pulse. If you listen, not to the voices, but to the clacking heels on marble floors, you can almost get a sense on the pulse rate on most days.
Sitting quietly, you can't help but catch snippets of conversation echoing through the halls. Many are upbeat, but if you listen closely you will hear things that break your heart. Everyone's path is different, some more rocky that others.
Jilda doesn't have cancer, she has a faulty immune system that requires monthly booster shots to ward off debilitating respiratory infections. So in the scheme of things, she's fortunate, but watching her sitting each month in that big green chair with tubes and beeping devices hooked to her arm, it is sometimes hard to fully appreciate her good fortune.
Today one of her chair-buddy's got bad news. The chemo for the pancreatic cancer is not working, and the doctor whispered that they'd have to move to plan "B".
Jilda talked at length with her chair-buddy's daughter, who'd brought him for treatment. It was a surreal experience listening to my wife's soothing words of comfort. I thought to myself, I can only hope I'd be half as strong if I were sitting in that big green chair.
The cafeteria is an open area adjacent to a hallway that leads to the offices of hundreds of doctors. The halls start buzzing just after eight on most days. The place seems to have a pulse. If you listen, not to the voices, but to the clacking heels on marble floors, you can almost get a sense on the pulse rate on most days.
Sitting quietly, you can't help but catch snippets of conversation echoing through the halls. Many are upbeat, but if you listen closely you will hear things that break your heart. Everyone's path is different, some more rocky that others.
Jilda doesn't have cancer, she has a faulty immune system that requires monthly booster shots to ward off debilitating respiratory infections. So in the scheme of things, she's fortunate, but watching her sitting each month in that big green chair with tubes and beeping devices hooked to her arm, it is sometimes hard to fully appreciate her good fortune.
Today one of her chair-buddy's got bad news. The chemo for the pancreatic cancer is not working, and the doctor whispered that they'd have to move to plan "B".
Jilda talked at length with her chair-buddy's daughter, who'd brought him for treatment. It was a surreal experience listening to my wife's soothing words of comfort. I thought to myself, I can only hope I'd be half as strong if I were sitting in that big green chair.
Isn't it surreal when you are dealing with difficult life issues and then you see others who are dealing with life and death... Jilda certainly has a quiet strength, I hope I have half as much as she does :)
ReplyDeleteThank you Launna.
DeleteThese visits must certainly put things into perspective.
ReplyDeleteBelieve me Christine, it does. We try not to use the word "Someday". If we want to do something, we plan and do it.
DeleteBig hugs to you and Jilda! Take care
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Thank you Kitty.
DeleteOh- You've got a good one there, Rick. An encouragement to others even as she faces her own devil. I worked in a hospital for several years and my hubby is still a chaplain there. You are right-there is a pulse to the place...and that heart beat motivates every action that takes place there- some good-some bad-some healings-and, sadly, some deaths. I miss the people but I don't miss the daily heartaches. xo Diana
ReplyDeleteHer doctor keeps encouraging her to submit her writings to one of the medical journals on medical care. She thinks it will have a profound impact on people going through similar ordeals.
DeleteSuch a powerful post, and I do remember how I felt being in the chair ...
ReplyDeleteThank you Claudia.
DeleteThe first thought I had while reading your post was the word "hero". Seeing all the glamor shots and phony faces of people that the world holds up for everyone to emulate, covet, or hero worship, I look at the real heroes in life. Usually they are the quiet ones who take the time to comfort, to be brave, to sit and listen to a plan "B" with dignity, or to stand by and be ready with strong arms to help. I've met many heroes in different settings...none will ever be on the front of "People" mag, but I'm glad to have known them. Your post really hit the nail on the head. I do hope someday you and Jilda will not have to go there anymore, but while you are there you're someone's hero.
ReplyDeleteI told Jilda to read what you wrote and it brought tears to her eyes.
DeleteI totally agree with you about heroes. So many people doing remarkable things but I guess that's not newsworthy.
Such a poignant piece, Rick...I've always wondered why Jilda went in for "treatments." Thanks for the explanation. I wish her the best and feel sad for her chair-buddy.
ReplyDeleteThank you Rebecca.
Deletewonderful post Rick - I agree with your sentiments. I'm sure Jilda has touched on many more people than she even realizes and I'm sure many are grateful for her kinds words of hope and support
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