Eavesdropping - My Fellow Patients

I go to the JamesCare facility on Kenny Road for Zometa infusions, Aranesp injections, and routine bloodwork twice a month. JamesCare is a wonderful place, beautifully decorated and full of great, attentive staff. In the 11th floor infusion center, friends and loved ones are welcome to sit with the patient during treatment. The cubicles, each outfitted with a cushy recliner and with its own window overlooking OSU west campus, are separated by curtains or frosted glass doors.

It's a very comforting environment for those receiving treatment. It's also nearly impossible to avoid overhearing conversations from one cubicle to the next, unless one has succumbed to the comfy recliner and fallen asleep.

An elderly man arrives alone for his first round of chemo. He has no family, he tells the nurse, and he came by taxi. She persuades him to call his pastor for the ride home. She offers to telephone his pharmacy to make certain they'll be open long enough for him to pick up his anti-nausea meds; it's Friday, and if he doesn't get them today he'll face a long, uncomfortable night. He sounds bewildered and frightened, and I weep for his solitude.

A man tells the nurse, in a tired, gravelly voice, of his constant pain and fatigue. A woman, who I take to be his wife, assents quietly and offers more detail. I sense that he's uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, to admit how much pain he's in.

A woman shares pictures of her grandchildren with the nurse and jokes constantly with the man accompanying her. He's either her husband or a long-time companion; I can hear the echoes of long, happy years together in their voices.

I don't have much pain and my fatigue has lessened dramatically with the ferrous gluconate supplements. As I'm only doing medications and not chemo, I'm usually there for between two and four hours, depending on how quickly lab results come back; most others are there for the full day. And I'm never alone, even though I may drive myself there without company. When I overhear their conversations, I know how lucky I am. It's certainly the cure for self-pity.