A New Perspective

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior…” — J.D. Salinger, “The Catcher in the Rye.”

Both waiting rooms were almost entirely filled when I walked into Texas Oncology cancer center in Paris, Texas, on June 27.

Children pressed their faces to the glass of the built-in fish tank separating the rooms. People of all ages and ethnicities sat in identical blue chairs waiting to be called. Maybe they were there for simple blood work. Maybe they were there for their first round of chemotherapy. I couldn’t tell the difference.

A quiet, yet unoppressive atmosphere lingered in the air. Sitting, waiting, surrounded by those people, I felt an overwhelming sense of hope.

But June had been a hard month. On June 2 former Stanford swimmer Brock Turner was sentenced to six months in jail after sexually assaulting an unconscious woman. On June 12, 49 people were killed in the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando, Florida. June 20 was the anniversary of the Charleston, South Carolina church massacre.

I was mad. I was mad at the world.

As a journalist, I’m surrounded by the news, but I’m usually good about not letting it affect my everyday life. I’m human, though, and after tragedy after senseless tragedy, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I cried, prayed, asked God “Why?” All I could see were the negative aspects of the world — the senseless violence, hatred and pain.

But then I stepped into that room.

— —

“… You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are now….”

The waiting room of a cancer center is infinitely different from the waiting room of a hospital or doctor’s office. The hope I felt came from not being able to differentiate between patients who were having their bodies poisoned to try to kill the cancer inside them, and patients who had just been diagnosed. I couldn’t set people apart because none of them allowed their illness to affect their attitude.

They sat talking, joking, smiling. Some read books or magazines, others swiped through their phones. A little old man wearing suspenders and a fedora sat at the farthest end of the room. He had just sat down his book when he was approached by an elderly man coming back from having blood drawn. They smiled and embraced, talking about how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. Not once did either of them talk about their health.

Instead, they talked about “The Catcher in the Rye”, of all things.

As I sat in the waiting room, listening to these men talk about literature like they were in a diner rather than a cancer center, all I could think of was the sense of community. Everyone in that waiting room understood each other, whether they had cancer themselves or, like me, had a relative with cancer.

— -

“… Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them — if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you…. ”

In 2006, at 36, my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer — cancer that is most prevalent in people 50 years of age and older. She was having her gallbladder removed when the surgeon found the tumor. She decided to undergo six months of optional, but highly encouraged, chemotherapy. In 2011, just short of being five years out and getting the all clear to stop having scans every six months, we found out her cancer had metastasized, spreading upward to her lungs. Once again, she underwent surgery and faced another six months of chemotherapy.

There are certain things that everyone who’s been around cancer can relate to. Chemo makes you feel 10 times worse than the actual cancer. The thick, white shakes you have to drink prior to a CT scan taste nothing like bananas or berries, the only two flavor options you have. To everyone else, using the word “cancer” in front of you is like swearing in front of a Southern Baptist.

— —

“… It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”

That Monday in the cancer center my mom reached the six-month countdown. Six months, one more clean scan, and she’ll be down to annual scans only. That day was about more than my mom, though. I was overjoyed when she gave me the news, and I stayed in that happy state for days after. But even when the reality of how close this is to being over had sunk in, there was one thing that I couldn’t seem to forget. My mind kept wandering back to that waiting room and the old men talking about “The Catcher in the Rye.”

Nothing filled me with more hope for the world than seeing a waiting room full of people in the various stages of cancer exuding faith and positivity. For the past 10 years cancer has been a part of my life, and with that chapter hopefully coming to a close on Dec. 12, I can say that I have taken away one positive — a new perspective on life.