Patience and Hope

Ginko Biloba leaves. Why does my oncologist have Ginko Biloba leaf patterns on the carpet in the waiting room? Why am I staring at the carpet while listening to HGTV in the background? To calm my nerves? Because I'm bored? My appointment was thirty minutes ago and the doctor is running behind....

This afternoon started with my now routine six month diagnostic mammogram. As I stood there in that all too familiar blue, unflattering, but oddly comfortable smock I took an obligatory selfie which I sent to my husband in the waiting room. I don't know why I take that photo every time, but now it has become a comforting ritual. As I sit and wait for my mammogram I can't help but watch the other women coming and going. Emotions and facial expressions share more of their story than they realize. And, I'm sure, more of mine too. I can pick out the ladies who are survivors, and have been for years, by their keen familiarity with this process. They are playing on their phones and are semi-confident they will continue to get good news today at this appointment. There are ladies that are new to this process waiting on biopsy results and praying their intuition is wrong. They are wide eyed, scared, and can't sit still. Then there are the ladies who are familiar with the process but still terrified. These are the ladies who are back because something has changed and they are praying they don't have to start the journey all over again. They know the journey, they have had the surgeries, endured the chemo, battled the radiation fatigue, rang the bell, and taken the dreaded meds. Yet fate has brought them here again. Nurses, doctors, social workers and volunteers bustle past the waiting area filled with women in various stages of their cancer journey.

It's my turn. Time to face the dreaded, but necessary, imaging machine yet again. After the painful test is complete I'm ushered to the waiting area again. A radiologist will review my test results and determine if another image is needed or, worse news, an ultrasound before they let me leave for the next stop on today's agenda, a visit with my surgical oncologist. After only a few minutes, but what seems like far too long, I'm asked to step into a private room to talk to a social worker. No one knows what to expect when the door closes to the private room but everyone in the waiting room knows what happened when that door reopens. You see women emerge scared and upset if the news wasn't what they were hoping, or you see women whose faces are more at ease than when they went in. Today I'm blessed to be in the latter. The social worker said my test results don't show anything concerning, "no change" since the last mammogram. That's the best news you can receive once you start having mammograms every six months, "no change". She hands me an envelope containing the preliminary results to take to my doctor upstairs.

After changing out of the blue smock and entering the waiting room again to meet up with my husband, I get to see a woman ringing the survivor bell! She looks tired, and thin. Her bald head is wrapped in a scarf. But the smile on her face is unmistakable. Her family smiles, many with tears also streaming down their cheeks as they take pictures of her ringing the bell. This is a huge milestone! Everyone in the waiting area stops and claps, all understanding how big of a step this is for the lady and her family. One more step in her cancer journey is now complete.

As for me, my next step is upstairs to meet with my oncologist. After checking in, my husband and I absentmindedly watch HGTV that's playing on the TV in the waiting room, chat about minor things, and stare at the Ginko Biloba patterned carpet while waiting to be called in the back. This office does not hold good memories. This is the office where our lives were forever changed. This is the office where we heard the words "you have cancer". Anxiety is expected, even though I was told the images look good. Thirty minutes after my appointment I am finally called to the back, to change into yet another (even less fashionable) smock. This one is uncomfortable, and open at the sides so I'm cold. After what seems like an eternity of waiting, the doctor arrives to speak with my husband and I. We both breathe a sigh of relief when she confirms it, the scans today are good news. We will repeat them again in six more months, the best news you can get at this appointment. After the standard array of questions about diet, exercise, AI meds, and side effects we are on our way!

My traditional celebratory stop at the coffee shop and gift shop is a must! These small wins and traditions are important, comforting, and (for a few minutes) make you feel less like a cancer patient and more like a normal person just going about their day.

As we make our way to the exit with our coffees, we stumble upon another survivor ringing the bell. She is all smiles as her family videos the happy event. But once the little boy with their group hugs her, she begins sobbing. The weight of the moment is overwhelming, and I remember it well. All of the emotions hit at once.

Happiness that you have reached this milestone.

Relief that you are moving on to the next level of treatment.

Exhaustion from fighting to live.

Thankful for those around you that have been your biggest supporters and cheerleaders.

Disbelief that this happened to ME.

Hopeful for the future.

~~~FHL