Dear Cancer Clinic...

I’ve spent hundreds of hours in cancer clinics in my life.  There is probably not one single place I dislike more than a doctor’s office or hospital.  If there was one single thing that I ever was most afraid of, it would be cancer.  For some reason, the irony of all of this was extra apparent to me this week.  I sat there on Tuesday, Stephen by my side, both of us in our minds playing Russian Roulette.  You can’t help but overthink it.  

After twenty-five hours of waiting, driving, and testing, I walked out of there with clear scans.  Just go back to living - that simple.  Go eat some chicken and go home.  Go do laundry, help your son hot glue his fifth grade planet project and sign all the papers in the take-home folders.  Get your daughter’s dress ready for the daddy-daughter dance on Friday.  Plan your Christmas. Buy your gifts.  Plan your celebration dinner with your friends.  

God has placed me in uncomfortable.  He has done this purposefully.  This was His plan, His Jeremiah 29:11.  He has given me more grace than I deserve and though I have walked out of that clinic frustrated, confused, disappointed, amazed, and dumbfounded, I have never walked out of there ungrateful.  Never ungrateful for the way He shows me how loved I am and how much I have by showing me what it could be - what it has been.  This week more than ever, it was obvious.  The waiting was a lot longer, so maybe I had longer to think.  My introversion kicks in and I usually look down at my book or iPad but this time, for a few minutes, I stared down the hallway and watched doors open and close, people in and out.  I looked out the window and wondered what would happen if I just left now but I was pretty sure that wasn’t an option.  What would happen if I acted on my crazy and just started running?  It would make for a good story, but wouldn’t change anything. 

So in my mind, I wrote a letter to Cancer Clinic.  I decided we are not friends.  Our relationship is symbiotic - we exist on our own but need each other to survive.  (Thank you, fifth grade).  

I’ll visit again in four months, but in between that time, I will have Christmas, I will celebrate birthdays, I will go on trips, and go to concerts.  I will do school projects and look forward to a New Year.  Things will break and I will be inconvenienced.  A lot. 

I will be grateful, because I am.  

Dear Cancer Clinic,

I visited you today as I have over a hundred times.  I know your walls, your paint, your furniture, your chairs, your art in the hallways.  I’ve turned the corner to your driveway and every time I feel my throat swell and my heart race.  Cancer clinic, I won’t lie, you make me nervous.  

I watched you today during our visit, and I listened to you too.  I watched your people.  You see the sickest, the most broken - physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  You see the hopeless.  You see the hope.  You see the beginning and you watch the journey to the end.  

I watched the lady who talked too loud and too close about the sale she got on her new purse.  

I backed up when she got too close.  

I watched the pale lady with the mask who listened politely to her but probably wanted to run.  

I watched the weak and tired lady use her purse as a pillow in the waiting room.  

I watched and listened as the husband read his wife the brochure on the very cancer that I have. 

I watched the young girl with the baby who screamed and fussed until she went to sleep like we all wanted to do.  I wanted her to have a stroller. Or friends like mine that would take care of her baby.  But, then she probably wanted to hold her baby, to help distract her.  

I was one of your youngest visitors today but certainly not excluded.  

I watched as people moved from chair to chair and large waiting room to small waiting room with bags of pills, magazines, and family members that they have drug into this mess.  

I watched them stare at me too.  They stared at my boots and so did I.  I saw the steel peeking through the toe and thought of how funny they must have looked with hospital gowns.  I felt out of place but sort of liked it - because no one can really tell how much I need you.  

I looked down your hallway.  Shiny, waxed floors and rows of doors and hand sanitizer.  I listened to the nurse ask everyone loudly the same questions:

“Are you having any trouble feeding yourself?”

“Are you having any pain?” 

“Are you having any difficulty getting up and down?”

“Have you had a fever?”

I wondered if she ever gets bored.  I asked her if she ever made up questions.  She was  not into humor.   

I listened to the nurses talk about their kids.  I thought about my own kids and how I couldn’t wait to see them.  

I thought about your rooms and then I walked in and sat in one.  Once the door was closed, you could cut the silence with a knife.  Cancer clinic, you do not talk.  You do not distract.  Your paper table is scary.  Your silence is creepy.  I looked at your magazines but was not desperate enough for Golf Digest or the rodeo magazine.  

So, I looked at my phone and I waited.  

And waited.  

Cancer clinic, you have no schedule.  You give us a time to visit, but once we are in your doors, we cannot leave until you say.  You are demanding and consuming. I poured your coffee with powdered creamer and realized there was only decaf.  I was disappointed but drank it anyway and thought of real coffee with half and half.  I thought about how much more pleasant our visits would be if your friends met me on the bench out front and I never came inside.  I’m much better outside.  In the open space.  Less people to talk and stare.  Less hand sanitizer.  Less waxed floors.  We could discuss my scans and blood over Starbucks.

But I stay, like I always do.  I wanted to bolt but I waited for my turn.  

And my turn is good.  Inside of your walls, I am a star.  I shine with crystal clear scans and glow of health in comparison to so much broken.  In comparison to when I was so broken.  

So, Cancer Clinic, you have tools to heal and I need you.  I need you in spite of your unpleasant and your uncomfortable.  I need you to remind me that I am ok and that I can walk out of your doors and continue to live.  I can walk back into my messy life that’s chipped a little, but not broken.  I can walk back into the arms of my warm children who smell like outside and shampoo and school all at the same time.  I am reminded to be thankful that I’m not spending the night, that I’m able to walk away.    

So, thank you Cancer Clinic.  Thank you for showing me hope and broken and healing.  Thank you for teaching me patience and to be grateful.  Thank you for the glimpses of real that I get when I visit you.  Thank you for letting my husband, and my friends, and my God walk through the halls with me so that I am never alone.  

Sincerely, 

Me