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Couldn't help but notice
By Barb Walter, Hennessey Clipper
Before the ink is dry on this week’s paper I will have completed my 38th and final radiation treatment. It’s not just the snack of Graham Crackers and Diet 7-Up from the hospital that I’m already missing. Nor is it the solitary reflection time during my 40-mile daily road trip.
It’s my Cancer Club Waiting Room Buddies I’m missing.
It’s Cindy, the woman who tugs at her wide-brimmed ball cap which covers her peach fuzz hair which is now coming in after chemotherapy.
At fist she was quiet.
We all were.
We were strangers.
We were made of stone.
Then someone cracked a joke.
Our granite melted.
It may have been Cindy (not her real name) whose humor first made us warm up to one other. She refers to her remaining breast as “Lucky Lindy” since it’s flying solo. Her son said her other side must be Amelia Earhart since it’s missing.
Hey, it’s OK to laugh. It’s cancer humor. If we couldn’t laugh about it, we’d sit down and cry … and might not get up.
Cindy is also the one who said the prosthetic rubber breast they gave her in the hospital after her mastectomy was good for several laughs. She and her family and friends called it a game of “Where’s Waldo?” Sometimes her prosthesis was around her neck, stuck to her side or was a middle knocker but was never where it was supposed to be.
Now that I think of it, maybe it was Bob of Enid who got us talking. He’s a wonderful cancer buddy who tells great stories. And it just so happens that he is married to one of the Thompson twins (1954 HHS grad, Earlyne) so they’ve shared reminiscent times of Hennessey.
Bob has to watch what he eats because of his cancer but Earlyne said sister Darlyne of Hennessey had purchased Parkerhouse cinnamon rolls during the holidays. Bob said they actually counted how many he ate.
Then there’s Mrs. N, the 84-year-old cervical cancer victim who whipped breast cancer when she was in her early 70s. Monday was her last treatment day but another dear, sweet lady – who I’ll call Mrs. A – joined us last week.
Mrs. A is prim, proper and petite. Her gray hair is held in place by a head band and she talked about getting a shorter hairstyle so it would be easier to care for during treatment. She said her sisters had curly hair and hers was straight but she’d heard that radiation could make your hair curly.
Cindy took off her ball cap and rubbed her head to check for curls.
Mrs. A said she’s being treated for rectal cancer. When we didn’t respond with a humorous quip, she candidly and deliberately said, “I told my doctor I didn’t’ think I wanted my ––––– shortened.”
Her crack caused uproarious waiting room laughter and not only the nurse but a technician or two came out to check on us.
I’m also missing some of the hospital personnel who put up with my initial arms-folded attitude and scared-stiff-and-curious behavior.
Nurse Karl won me over from the start. He’s kind, informative, laughs at my cancer jokes and I wonder if he and Byron-the-tech call me their Smiley Face Patient.
During the last 10 days of treatment, the radiation is concentrated on the cancer bed. My breast was marked with purple ink. That was also my day to see Nurse Karl so he had to look at my drawing. I told him I’d asked for a Smiley Face. Later I realized it’s more of a Bride of Frankenstein mark but I tell myself it’s a Zena Warrior Princess symbol.
And this fighting princess is having more than a little trouble with the idea of finishing radiation treatment. No, it’s not just the comforting Graham Crackers and Diet 7-Up or my Cancer Buddies that I’m missing. It’s the fighting. If I’m not zing-zing-zinging my magic radiation bracelets at the cancer than how do I fight it?
So far I'm fighting it with humor. If you think I went for my last radiation treatment without a smiley face emblazoned on my bosom, then you’re dead wrong.
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