This is such a thought-provoking post, thank you! I am/was a caregiver to my husband who passed last December from glioblastoma after a 9-month battle. As we sat in many waiting rooms for multiple treatments, I too watched others. Very specifically, during his radiation treatments, I found myself wanting to talk to each caregiver and patient-to ask some of these very questions you pose. I was looking for some bit of data that I could apply. I was looking for reasons to say “oh, I’m so sorry for what you’re experiencing” while secretly thinking thank God that’s not us! (I’m not proud of this, by the way). I was looking for hope. And to keep it alive.
Thank you for your story. Thank you for your vulnerability. And thank you for writing. Many prayers and good vibes being sent for your continued NED and for being unremarkable.
I am so sorry to learn about your husband's recent death. Yes, being a caretaker means you spent much time in those waiting rooms too. You were looking for hope. It's interesting that you mentioned that; I hadn't really thought about it like that. And you wanted to reach out. I have often felt that way too. Of course, I generally just keep quiet.
Thank you so much for your kind, encouraging words. I am so glad the piece resonated and that you took time to comment too. I appreciate you doing that. Again, my heartfelt condolences.
Hi Nancy, this post blew me away. It includes exactly what I think when I am in my oncologist's waiting room. In fact, your waiting room looks so much like mine, I thought it was mine!
First of all, I'm so glad you are unremarkable. As you know, a cancer diagnosis introduces a whole lot of turbulence in our lives. Turbulence that one never wants to ever go through again. In fact, for me and I'm sure many cancer havers, we have that psychological turbulence that remains even if we're in NED world. I get a lot of psychotherapy and take psych meds for my PTSD. The great thing is that both treatments have worked beautifully, and I live a remarkably unremarkable life because of my seeking out the help I need and deserve.
Like you, I'm an astute observer of people, and when I am in the oncologist's waiting room, I always think of the stories of the people I see there. Are they going to die? Maybe she's in a wheelchair during treatment, but maybe she will be OK eventually. Which one of that couple has cancer? What is the prognosis of that guy? The problem for me is I think too much of others' stories, and that, in turn, makes me vulnerable to a panic episode. And then I go into the examination room a mess.
And then I think of my oncologist's stories. How many people did he have to tell they had Stage IV disease? How does he cope with the bad news he must give patients? How elated is he when a patient has a good prognosis?
And being unremarkable myself, which I am grateful for, why do I feel survivor's guilt?
Anyway, as you can see, your post gave me a lot to think about. Thank you for writing it.
Why am I not surprised you think about all those stories too? And you are so right about that turbulence. And yes, the stories that every oncologist has too. It's a lot for them to deal with day in and day out too, that's for sure.
Observing people is something I do all the time, not just in waiting rooms. And wondering about their stories - can't help myself.
I'm glad you remain unremarkable too! I think many of us feel that survivor guilt. I don't know why we do, but we do.
Hello Nancy! My Cancer story began waiting for my Mom to hear her tests results. I was in “the waiting room”. Mom was coughing and loosing weight for about six months, yet refused to make an appointment for her ailments. She was looking forward to a cruise through Germany, retracing her heritage. I was waiting for her at the airport when she returned from Germany. She came off the plane in a wheelchair. I pleaded with her to see a Physician.
My mother bolted out of the waiting room. I followed her. She told me Stage Four Lung Cancer. I made more appointments for her, and drove her home. I called my Sister, as she was afraid and could not be with us. I called my Husband. I called work and asked for an L.O.A. I needed to be present. Diagnosis was December 26. My Mom passed away January 12.
I am so sorry about your mother. Your loss is very recent and must still be so raw. Cancer is such a thief. My heartfelt condolences. I'm grateful you shared a little about your cancer story. Thank you.
Indeed. Cancer is a Thief! I am Thankful I was With my Mom, and She was with me, throughout the Journey of the Cancer Rooms: Waiting, Diagnostic, Hospital and Hospice.
I love how you put that -- forever recent. I might have to borrow that sometime. Based on your original comment, I thought your mom died this past January, so your words are so meaningful. My mother died in 2008 and those words are so fitting. Thank you for your additional comments.
Yes, those difficult times become and remain treasures for your heart. Some of the most precious memories I have of my mother are from her EOL time. Terribly bittersweet and painful and yet precious too.
Sad, I’ve been working on this for 6 years. I want to get better. I’m in remission from lobular, no chemo, was it right choice in retrospect no cause they don’t do any scans if you have dbl max..
You are so blessed the most important is family and peace. Mood up and down. Can use prayers for peace of mind. Praying for you. Some people do well. I wish I could feel better. Thanks
I am sorry that you struggle so. I wish for you to remain unremarkable, too. I also sincerely hope you can find peace of mind and begin to feel better. Thank you for sharing.
This is such a thought-provoking post, thank you! I am/was a caregiver to my husband who passed last December from glioblastoma after a 9-month battle. As we sat in many waiting rooms for multiple treatments, I too watched others. Very specifically, during his radiation treatments, I found myself wanting to talk to each caregiver and patient-to ask some of these very questions you pose. I was looking for some bit of data that I could apply. I was looking for reasons to say “oh, I’m so sorry for what you’re experiencing” while secretly thinking thank God that’s not us! (I’m not proud of this, by the way). I was looking for hope. And to keep it alive.
Thank you for your story. Thank you for your vulnerability. And thank you for writing. Many prayers and good vibes being sent for your continued NED and for being unremarkable.
Hi Cate,
I am so sorry to learn about your husband's recent death. Yes, being a caretaker means you spent much time in those waiting rooms too. You were looking for hope. It's interesting that you mentioned that; I hadn't really thought about it like that. And you wanted to reach out. I have often felt that way too. Of course, I generally just keep quiet.
Thank you so much for your kind, encouraging words. I am so glad the piece resonated and that you took time to comment too. I appreciate you doing that. Again, my heartfelt condolences.
Hi Nancy, this post blew me away. It includes exactly what I think when I am in my oncologist's waiting room. In fact, your waiting room looks so much like mine, I thought it was mine!
First of all, I'm so glad you are unremarkable. As you know, a cancer diagnosis introduces a whole lot of turbulence in our lives. Turbulence that one never wants to ever go through again. In fact, for me and I'm sure many cancer havers, we have that psychological turbulence that remains even if we're in NED world. I get a lot of psychotherapy and take psych meds for my PTSD. The great thing is that both treatments have worked beautifully, and I live a remarkably unremarkable life because of my seeking out the help I need and deserve.
Like you, I'm an astute observer of people, and when I am in the oncologist's waiting room, I always think of the stories of the people I see there. Are they going to die? Maybe she's in a wheelchair during treatment, but maybe she will be OK eventually. Which one of that couple has cancer? What is the prognosis of that guy? The problem for me is I think too much of others' stories, and that, in turn, makes me vulnerable to a panic episode. And then I go into the examination room a mess.
And then I think of my oncologist's stories. How many people did he have to tell they had Stage IV disease? How does he cope with the bad news he must give patients? How elated is he when a patient has a good prognosis?
And being unremarkable myself, which I am grateful for, why do I feel survivor's guilt?
Anyway, as you can see, your post gave me a lot to think about. Thank you for writing it.
Hi Beth,
Why am I not surprised you think about all those stories too? And you are so right about that turbulence. And yes, the stories that every oncologist has too. It's a lot for them to deal with day in and day out too, that's for sure.
Observing people is something I do all the time, not just in waiting rooms. And wondering about their stories - can't help myself.
I'm glad you remain unremarkable too! I think many of us feel that survivor guilt. I don't know why we do, but we do.
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts.
Hello Nancy! My Cancer story began waiting for my Mom to hear her tests results. I was in “the waiting room”. Mom was coughing and loosing weight for about six months, yet refused to make an appointment for her ailments. She was looking forward to a cruise through Germany, retracing her heritage. I was waiting for her at the airport when she returned from Germany. She came off the plane in a wheelchair. I pleaded with her to see a Physician.
My mother bolted out of the waiting room. I followed her. She told me Stage Four Lung Cancer. I made more appointments for her, and drove her home. I called my Sister, as she was afraid and could not be with us. I called my Husband. I called work and asked for an L.O.A. I needed to be present. Diagnosis was December 26. My Mom passed away January 12.
Hi Cheryl,
I am so sorry about your mother. Your loss is very recent and must still be so raw. Cancer is such a thief. My heartfelt condolences. I'm grateful you shared a little about your cancer story. Thank you.
Indeed. Cancer is a Thief! I am Thankful I was With my Mom, and She was with me, throughout the Journey of the Cancer Rooms: Waiting, Diagnostic, Hospital and Hospice.
My Mother passed in 2010. It is forever recent.
Cheryl,
I love how you put that -- forever recent. I might have to borrow that sometime. Based on your original comment, I thought your mom died this past January, so your words are so meaningful. My mother died in 2008 and those words are so fitting. Thank you for your additional comments.
Hi Cheryl,
Yes, those difficult times become and remain treasures for your heart. Some of the most precious memories I have of my mother are from her EOL time. Terribly bittersweet and painful and yet precious too.
Sad, I’ve been working on this for 6 years. I want to get better. I’m in remission from lobular, no chemo, was it right choice in retrospect no cause they don’t do any scans if you have dbl max..
You are so blessed the most important is family and peace. Mood up and down. Can use prayers for peace of mind. Praying for you. Some people do well. I wish I could feel better. Thanks
Hi Kathy,
I am sorry that you struggle so. I wish for you to remain unremarkable, too. I also sincerely hope you can find peace of mind and begin to feel better. Thank you for sharing.