That Room
Last year I went with a loved one into that room, the chemotherapy room, as they went through treatment for leukemia.
The first day.
We sit here in the relative calm of the last pod in the room, with the overlapping rhythm of beeps from a half-dozen machines to keep us company.
Hushed voices and lowered gazes seem to be the unspoken rule. It seems almost overwhelmingly depressing, but not for lack of nurses and visitors trying to inject some lighthearted banter.
It’s the stark difference between us and them that is the most startling. Their eyes tell the story of the journey they’ve traveled so far — their bodies a harsh reminder of the future we are sure to face.
The majority of time passes by slowly, with only small reminders of the life that continues on outside. But then, we are jolted out of our daydreaming by a rush of activity. Training takes over for the talented nurses as they do what they are here to do — save lives.
Heartbeats race for a minute until it appears things will be alright. Eventually things slow back down to normal, though still remaining on alert.
The line between health and sickness, life and death, has never been more clear. Now I know what people mean when they say life is short. There was a list of things I was planning to do before…
