Sounds of cancer…

7:30am

Hi, I’m Lara MacGregor, no i don’t have a port.

Take a seat.

A young woman helps her mom add an app to her phone.

An elderly couple, one in a wheelchair, coughs through their face masks in the corner.

A kind looking gentleman in a tweed coat paces, clearly not wanting to sit. He stares out the window.

Thump, thump, thump - a garbage can rolls past me as the janitor checks the bathroom.

“Johnson”…. “Here I am”

What can I do for you? I’m here for treatment.

“Do you have a port?”

cough. cough. cough.

“Are you seeing the doctor today?”

“They will get you back soon, ok?”

I’m taking hydrocodone. It works. What I couldn’t take was the…

Here are your stickers and the list of your medications.

beep. beep- doors up on the elevator full of patients

uggghhh… an elderly man sits down next to me with a big sigh. He leaves.

A TSA agent in full uniform sits, carrying his labels. Coming or going from work to treatment.

People scroll their phones - escaping this place the best they can.

pacing

waiting

worrying

Mr. Smith, Here are your appointments for May. They will call you soon.

“I could just see her kickin the doctor. She has super attitude”

Caution - hazardous material wheels by in a cart.

Code Red

Here I sit. Every other week. Sometimes more. Trying to be hopeful. Mostly sad that this is my reality.

9:30

REFOCUS

• Gratitude: I have treatment options. I have flexibility in my job to make appointments. I have a car to drive myself here.

• Grace: I’m doing the best I can. It’s ok to be sad.

• Hope: Hope that my counts are high enough for injections and that I can start my lower dose of chemo today. (and that it works)

• Love: I am loved.

9:45am

Counts 1800. I can get my shots. I cry. Leaning over the table as nurses simultaneously injected a shot in each butt cheek. It burns. I still have a knot from the last shot…

Tears drip on the gauze pads.

Another shot in my arm.

Wipe away my tears.

Find a friend whose counts are too low for treatment. Give her a hug. Because connection is critical. We are not alone.

10:00am

On my car is a note from another patient friend. Reminding me I am loved.

Conference call starting soon. Full day of meetings.

Living. That’s the goal.

Still Kickin.

I’ll be back next month.