The Ass Cancer Chronicles

He walked in apprehensively, shuffling into the flourescently-tinged waiting room. He wore long sleeves, jeans, & a t-shirt. A ball cap covered his unkempt, grey hair, the color reflected somewhat in his sparse, 5-o’clock shadow. His hands stuffed in his pockets, he tried to channel the feeling of warmth as he made his way across the room.

He chose a blue-cushioned seat on the far wall next to an empty chair, settling hurriedly in his faint chattering and visible shaking.

I spotted him as he crossed the room that Monday while chatting up a few women I’d met the previous day, a Sunday. We picked up where we had left off – doctor’s appointments they’d been nervous about, kids that were traveling into town for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, the weather – all conversations we’d grown accustomed to having while waiting our turn.

He caught my eye, and I found myself curious about this new comrade.

I couldn’t help but notice how chilled he was, and offered to get up and grab him a glass of water from the water cooler across the room.

“Nah, that’ll just make me colder,” he gruffly replied, sinking further into his seat. Heard that, I thought to myself; I hate being cold and will wear or do anything to keep myself from it.

I got up and walked over to where he sat, asking, “Hey, do you mind if I sit next to you?” He eyed the empty chair, and nodded to it while muttering to go ahead.

I started asking him simple questions. Simple questions about where he lived, how he liked his place, and what there was to do in his town. I learned from other friends in the waiting room that sometimes they drove has far as 62 miles, each way, to receive radiation daily. Some lived deep in the Bayou & some lived in my same neighborhood – all of which I would never have met had we not been in the same waiting room on the same day at the same time, waiting for the same treatment, just on varying organs within our bodies.

As we talked, he loosened up. His chattering stopped, and his shaking lessened to a minimum. I learned that he was doing chemo and radiation, that he had one kidney, and that he was 78 years old.

I learned how he had to go see a psychiatrist as one of his referred appointments, which he thought was a waste of time. I listened.

“I’m not suicidal or any dumb shit like that, and it’s all the way out in Jefferson.”

He told me about how the Lord was on his side, prayers were on his side, and how his community was behind him. At the mention of community, I thought about my own community in Algiers Point, a few miles away, and how they’d been behind me as well, and it made me smile.

“Man, Mr. Gerald,” as 5 minutes in, we were on a first-name basis, “it is wild how that sense of community can be everything, huh?” I smiled at him and patted his arm lightly.

He talked more about this and how special it was to him. I continued to listen until I was called for my turn on the table, and told him I’d see him the next day.

Notice we didn’t talk about politics once. I don’t even know what kind of cancer he has. I’m not a religious person, but a spiritual one and respect other individual’s faith. I wondered if his psychiatrist that he was told to go see would listen to him and maybe make the long drive worth his while. I wondered if his reaction to the appointment was because of his upbringing to “tough it out and get through it” (as he had brought up), or if he had other experiences that made him angry at the thought of going to see the psychiatrist.

When I walked into the waiting room today (Wednesday) after my time on the radiation table, to my surprise – there he was. He had the biggest smile on his face, sitting along the wall with the long row of chairs for us and our other comrades waiting for our turn. He had more clothing on, and wasn’t visibly cold, which I was so grateful for. On the way out, I asked him if I could give him a hug, to which he said yes. I gave him the biggest hug, let him know I was happy to see him, and wished him the best Thanksgiving with his community, and walked out.

I love talking to people in the waiting room, for plenty of reasons. We have many visible differences, but in there, we all have a sense of community and common ground.

Although Mr.Gerald & I have awesome communities, a lot of people don’t. I make it a point to be their community for those few minutes, letting them talk while I listen, showing interest in their lives – as little or as much as they want to tell me – and making sure that they feel seen and valued. While it may sound daunting for some, it’s something that I’m good at, and something that I’m interested in. I love hearing other people’s stories – it’s one of my most favorite things in the whole wide world.

When I walk into the waiting room for radiation, I say good morning and look at each individual when I do it. I also say something dumb like, “Fancy meeting y’all here”, or, “What a beautiful day to get radiation, y’all!” and then sit down, and wait.

I don’t wait for my radiation turn, I wait for the first individual who needs to talk. This comes in many forms – constant eye contact; a comment about my age (I am roughly 20 – 30 years younger than everyone that comes in); a comment about the weather; etc. If I’m given the go-ahead, I ask if I can sit closer to them (we all have compromised health, afterall), and when they say yes (because no one has said no), I sit next to them, and listen.

When I chat with them, I hope that I’m giving them as much healing energy as they’re giving me. Hopefully, they can each walk out of there feeling a sense of community.

Until next time,

Kirsten.