From A Comfy Old Chair

Having enjoyed a beautiful Easter with my family and  friends, the weekend ended way too soon.  The girls started back to school  and Ronnie went back to work.  I returned to chemo.  I had to force  the car to drive there yesterday because I would have enjoyed  nothing better than staying at home playing with the horses and  piddling around the house. It's over an hour to drive to the hospital  and some days it is a rather lonely trip.  Other days I enjoy being lost  with my thoughts. Yesterday, was a little of both.  I was  dreading treatment but imagining the good that it will do.

When I got to the office, Deb gave me a huge smile and  a hug.  My
trepidation disappeared.  Thank heavens for wonderful  nurses!  She told me that they were doing some redecorating and we'd  soon be getting new infusion chairs.  I've not given much thought  to the soon to be replaced chair even though I've sat  in it more times than I can count. It's a bluish-green color that  isn't exactly inviting but isn't drab either.  It has a serious demeanor  with a tray in front; clinical but comfortable.  Not quite worn out but  dimpled in the cushions and aged more than some I've seen. I started  thinking about the old saying if these walls could talk and began to wonder  about the arms of these chairs.  With four or five patients every single  day, more than 100 lives are cushioned in each every given month. That's a  lot of living!  I've done my share of living while getting infused.  There have been times when I sought comfort from the high back and would  relax comfortably in it's hug, determined that the chemo dripping into my  body was melting tumors.  Other times when I
knew that my cancer  was progressing, but hoped that the next concoction to be given in that very  chair would bring more time and hope. I have experienced both dread and anticipation between those arms. There have been days where I literally had to make myself sit there. wanting to be anywhere and everywhere else.  I have been mad and glad, scared and tired, sick and  frustrated, excited and hopeful in that one silly chair. I've slept there,  rested there, and experienced every emotion under the sun sitting in the dimpled  cushion of that chair.  I've dreamed of my children and family, wished many  wishes, and prayed many a prayer while sitting there.  I've read  books, listened to music, and met new friends.

As I sat in it yesterday the chair next to me saw two  other patients come
and go. The first was in and out fairly quickly....an  old pro with this
routine.  The second was there for the first time and  diagnosed with stage IV colorectal cancer.  She found out just before the  birth of her son and is only 33 years old.  Her husband was with her and at  first I heard determination in the voice through the curtain but as  the newness of what was happening began to settle in the voice became  shakier.  Questions filled the air.  Will this make her  sick?  Will her hair fall out?  How long until it works and how many treatments until she's done?  Answers that had  probably already been given a few times over but often come with different  responses.  I heard her husband's voice waver slightly and then he  asked if she thought she would be ok if he left to call and check on the baby  and work. My mind traveled back to those tearful first visits to  chemo that now seem a lifetime ago and the emotions that Ronnie and I shared  together all from a similar chair.  We would ride home with my head  against his shoulder and his arm on my leg.  I would sleep or
pretend to  sleep so that we could act as though what just happened hadn't. Sometimes I would cry silently and sometimes we would cry  together.  And then there were the celebrations when all in the  world was right and news was good.  I lived, and still live, for moments  like those.  My thoughts were drawn to the girl next door. I  heard sniffling and an effort to hold back tears. She was  alone.  I let her cry for a minute or two and then asked if she would mind company.  I parted the curtains and we began to talk. We  exchanged phone numbers and by the time her husband was back life  stories. I saw the relief in his face when he saw her smile.  A  good feeling....all from the support of a comfy old  chair.

Suzanne Lindley