I've discovered that the best thing to do for me in a waiting room is to write. It takes my mind off things, it keeps me busy and I love writing so much that even after a long wait I tut when they finally call my name - especially if I was in the middle of a sentence.
It was my 6 monthly check at the oncology department today. I went, armed with writing materials...
It's deathly quiet.
The posters on the walls are the same as they were 2 years ago - 'catch it, bin it, kill it.'
The leaflets are the same - 'are you worried about cancer...' 'Cancer, the facts...'
The faces are different, but the expressions are the same. Tired, pale, worried.
The doctors come out and shout (and I mean SHOUT the names of their patients.) Last time I was here, the nice Indian doctor whispered my name. It took 3 goes before I heard him. Maybe its my fault that they all now SHOUT.
I've just noticed some colour. Some artwork on the wall - greens, yellows, blues. A bit of sunshine to brighten the gloom.
I can't believe it's two years. Sometimes we say 'God - it only feels like 5 minutes ago since...' But with this, it feels like a lifetime ago. Like it never even happened.
There's conversation now. A few more people have arrived, and there's some chat - but mostly there's silence - exchanged glances, sympathetic smiles, sighs.
One of the male nurses comes out. He looks as scary as hell. He's a tall, thin baldy fella with a permanent frown that frightens you to death. He's always here. I've just seen him laugh for the first time. He's sitting with a patient and cheering her up. Looks can be deceiving. He looks so nice when he laughs.
I wonder if I'll see the 'main man' today, or one of his little helpers. The Indian guy was lovely. He smelt of spices and I had wanted to ask him all about India. If I see him again this time, then maybe I will.
There's an old dad just come out with his wife and daughter. The wife is biting the inside of her cheek, trying to look brave. The daughter has been crying.
Come on, call my name now.
The room is filling up now. Mostly oldies. A sea of white heads with a couple of baldy ones covered with brightly coloured hats. I seem to be the only young'un.
2 wifies have struck up a conversation. They're sitting miles apart and talking so loudly that everyone else is looking up and listening. They're comparing notes on treatment, hair loss, hair dyes, lymph nodes, lumps...
30 minutes late now. Come on, shout my name.
A doctor yells, 'Margaret somethingorother.' She leaps off her seat - more from the fright of hearing her name said so loudly. Everyone has been called Margaret today. Seriously - she was the 4th Margaret. Amazing.
A male nurse comes out and shouts 'Liza Scott,' as in Liza Doolittle, as in 'Liza that rhymes with Tizer.' I actually laugh out loud because it sounds so funny. He looks at me strangely, saying 'this way Liza.' I chuckle again, and don't correct him. I like being Liza here. It makes it even more unreal - like I'm just acting in a play.
I get to see the main man. The man with the big bushy beard and the white hair. I think briefly that he should have a sign on the door saying 'Mr B's grotto.'
I'm in for 5 minutes. He does his inspection, has a little chat and I tell him I'm going to India on Friday.
'Ooh,' he replies, 'I think there's snow forecast there next week.'
'Eh?' I say, 'Snow in Goa?'
He laughs. 'Ohhhhh, India!' he exclaims, 'I thought you said Windermere!'
We both laugh. He tells me I'm fine, have a great time, and he'll see me in another 6 months.
I book my appointment for June, thank the receptionist very much, buy a little Charlie Cancer Bear in the shop, then get the hell out of there.
Happy Christmas everyone :-)
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| Liza and her family - soon to be enjoying the 30 degree sunshine of Windiamere |
