Lead the Life
I’m delighted and shocked to share that I only have four more chemo treatments left! It’s flown by, and yet crawled at a snail’s pace. As I see the light at the end of this Chemotherapy Tunnel, I’d like to share something that I’ve gleaned from my time in the infusion room.
First, let me set the scene: the infusion room is a large and open. It has around 30 faux leather recliners spread out, each with its own infusion pole for bags of fluid. I feel like an alpaca: I bring 3 bags to each treatment. I have a backpack with an electric blanket, a hat, slippers, a book, gum, water, and a snack of some kind. Then I have my purse, and also a light cooler that holds my ice gloves and socks cold until I need them (explained towards the end).
When I pick my chair, I always like to grab one by the window if I can. But often, the chairs are full, and I have to take what’s available. Sometimes it’s a window seat and sometimes it’s not, but I’ve noticed this: it’s often beside a chatty cancer patient.
The first two chemo rounds sat me beside Cheryl. She is probably in her sixties. She has a thick East Tennessee accent (says this Rhode Islander) and wears a short, curly wig with an orange hue. Her regiment had her coming in every single day for I don’t even know how long. She brought lunch and ate it there, while hooked up to her infusion. And I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember what kind of cancer she had. In her stomach, maybe? It might have been Pancreatic. She has kids and grandkids. I wasn’t really listening: I was focused on my own stuff—the starting chemo, my own anxiety... She chatted about her job and her cancer and her grandkids. I read magazines and heard her words, pretending to listen.
About two months after I started chemo, I ran into Cheryl in the waiting area. She flagged me down from across the room, lowering her mask so that I could see who she was, as if the orange wig wouldn’t clue me in. She was full of enthusiasm. “Sarah!” she waved. I walked over and met her face to face. “Cheryl—are you going in or coming out?” I asked. “I’m coming out,” she beamed. “I just finished my last chemo.” Then her face fell. “But it didn’t do a dang thing. Nothing changed.”
Cancer will do what cancer will do. I wish I’d paid more attention during the 6 or 7 hours that I had with Cheryl. I haven’t seen her again, and now that opportunity is gone.
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For a couple of my infusions, the stars have aligned: my friend Debby is there at the exact same time that I am. I know Debby from church, but we didn’t have much cross-over prior to our shared diagnosis. She found out she had breast cancer about a month and a half before I did.
Debby only goes every 3 weeks, but we can connect on my third week when we are both there together. We sit side by side and chat. We catch up. We bond over our similar stories. I hear about her family and she hears about mine. It’s a gift to be sitting with someone you know who is walking through exactly the same thing you are.
When Debby was having her first infusion, she beat me to the chairs and saved one beside her. I arrived right after she had received her pre-meds and just before she was about to take the aptly nicknamed Red Devil, which is an enormous, toxic, bright red drug in the hugest syringe you’ve ever seen. (Debby says she won’t let the Devil in her, so instead, we’re calling it the Red Soldier who does battle for her).
I called her name while I approached. Her face lit up. I could tell that she was nervous. She was wrapped in blankets and reading over some index cards with Bible verses that some of her friends had written out for her. I bent down next to her chair and prayed for her. Then I plopped down beside her, and we chatted for the next couple hours. The following day I received this text:
Sarah, I can’t tell you how special and meaningful it was to have you beside me for my first chemo! When you walked into the room and said in your fun, spunky voice, “Debby!”, my heart felt relief. My nurse had just finished my steroid bag and was preparing the red chemo. I so badly wanted to say, ‘let’s stop and pray’. And in you came— right over to me and prayed a powerful prayer for the red soldier to do its work. God used you in a mighty way, friend. I’m grateful and overwhelmed. Thank you, Sarah for loving me well. Thank you for praying boldly for me. I love you sister!
One small act in one small moment had a huge impact for someone else. I had taken my eyes off myself. Unlike my encounters with Cheryl, where I was consumed with my own expectations and worries, I was able to see someone else and meet them there. Debby needed a sense of peace. I was able to sit beside her, simply pray, and offer that to her. Not because I’m wonderful, but because I was there and able.
I can’t tell you how many times Debby has sent me an encouraging text that was exactly what I needed. She faithfully checks in, reminds me that she’s praying regularly for us both, that I’m on her mind. You see: Debby is uniquely positioned to get at my heart in the cancer journey, which is full of ups and downs, because she has it. She suffers what I suffer, so she understands in a way that nobody else can.
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Last week, Mallorie sat across from me. She was just diagnosed with Triple Negative breast cancer, which in the breast cancer world is the most aggressive, most wily of them all. It has the poorest prognosis because there are fewer targeted medicines. This was her first chemo treatment.
We talked across the aisle for almost an hour. She told me about her kids and her recent move to Knoxville. I told her about the girls and The Happy Envelope. We chatted about her cancer and chemo and what to expect. I told her I’d connect her with my Facebook cancer group and then we traded phone numbers.
Later I got this text:
Sarah: I’m so grateful to have met you this afternoon. I hope you’re feeling okay. I’m totally exhausted. I had a scary appointment with my doctor prior to my chemo and I want to thank you for taking my mind off things during my first treatment. I was petrified.
She was petrified. Of course! Chemo is petrifying. Cancer is petrifying. Mallorie needed some hope. And distraction. It’s easy for me to give that to her when I’m sitting right across from her, if I’ll just put my book down and look up.
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At my last chemo, I sat next to Samuel. He’s 75. I know this because he told me. He has Multiple Myeloma, which is cancer of the Bone Marrow. He had it four years ago and now it’s back again. Samuel was talkative and delightful: he was a paint contractor and then moved into flipping houses. He told me that wife took all his money in a divorce and eventually he stopped working so she’d stop taking his money. He has a daughter in South Carolina and a grandson named Miles. He tries to see them often. He’s been married four times. “I believe in love, I guess,” he laughed.
Chemo nearly killed him last time. He lost 60 pounds and his doctors were suggesting hospice. But then some things changed. He gained his weight back and went into remission. Until now.
Samuel was at his first chemo for this recurred cancer on the day he sat next to me. He told me that he was going to give it a month. If he starts getting as sick as he was last time, he’s not going to continue. “I told you I’m 75. How long is a person supposed to live, anyway?”
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I could put on my headphones and I’d probably lose my magnetic attraction for chit chat. This was my plan from the start: I’d read good books and listen to podcasts. I’d take this 3-hours or so and use the time to catch up on things. I’m usually running to chemo after work, so I still have emails to check and I text back and forth with some staff. I’ll cross some tasks off my mental lists while I sit with a chemo drip. That was the plan.
But clearly, there was another plan. There was a bigger, better plan that I was woven into.
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Only let each person lead the life that the Lord assigned to him, and to which God has called him. -1 Corinthians 7:17
Right now, I’ve been assigned to a Cancer Infusion Room. It’s a terrible place to be, but it’s also a beautiful place to be—if your eyes are open.
What if I’ve been put in this exact position so that I can hold out distraction, conversation, peace, and hope to the scared, hurting people around me? This exact time and this exact place: what if it’s precisely where I’m meant to be?
I don’t think there’s a what if. I think that’s exactly it.
Right now, you can’t enter the infusion room. Because of Covid, almost nobody without cancer can enter the infusion room. But I can. And I do: every single week. I am uniquely positioned to rub shoulders on a regular basis with cancer patients. And I can uniquely understand what they are going through. It’s the “life the Lord has assigned to me, to which called has called me.”
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Last week, when Samuel started making conversation, he told me that cancer has really given him a renewed faith. He wanted to know if I felt the same way. And I saw what he was doing: he is leading the life that’s assigned to him. He’s sitting next to a 42-year old woman with a large tumor—aggressive Stage 3 breast cancer—in an infusion room and he’s gonna talk about things that matter. And it warmed my heart to him.
We all have an infusion room. There are people we are rubbing shoulders with that we can either choose to ignore or invite in: The parents of your kids’ friends. The neighbors. The dog sitter. The house cleaner. The list goes on and on: You can pick up your magazine and read with your head down, or you can look them in the eye and pay attention to their life. And you may be the very person that they need at that moment. You are uniquely equipped to see them.
You may only have 6 or 7 hours with them, or it may be much longer. Who knows what’s being woven together with the start of what you give?
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The irony is that with this new chemo drug I’m on, I have to keep my hands and feet cold during the infusion. I wear special mittens with ice packs tucked inside, which is A) remarkably uncomfortable, and B) won’t let me turn a page. I can’t read a book or a magazine at all. I can’t swipe my phone. The opportunity to ignore someone by literature or technology was literally taken away from me.
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I learned my lesson with Cheryl. I’m not going to let that happen again. I failed to listen. I failed to see her. I was consumed with myself and my worry and my magazine. You know what, though? Cheryl was still woven into my life. That’s how grace works: Even though I royally messed up, much good has come out of it. I failed, but I also learned. I can now walk in to the infusion room with open hands and an open heart, which is right where I need to be.
