I wake up in the morning, fight the traffic, park the car, weave through the never ending hallways at MD Anderson Cancer Center, and arrive at the Pediatic Clinic. I look around me because I have promised myself that no matter how painful it is for me, I will acknowledge the suffering of those around me that have not been so lucky. I will look into their eyes and I will smile an apologetic and sympathetic smile and I will mean it. I will see their pain, and I will let it sting and sink in. Then, I open up a book or try to distract Rachel who has not made that same promise. She is the very picture of avoidance, head hung downward and to the side, eyes steel traps for emotion. I know that she has a hard time being here, but she doesn't say a word. I kiss my sweet girl while she puts on a brave face just as the nurse sneaks a little spray of the numbing medicine (she is not supposed to have) on Rachel's arm right before she pokes her with a big long needle.
Off we go again, weaving through the spider web of long hallways of endless sickness everywhere! This particular day we have found ourselves in the right place, wrong floor. We should have never been here but here we are, The Critical Care unit. Red, sobbing faces in the lobby, around the corner, down the hallway. Devastation lives here. We swiftly find our way to the 3rd floor. We'll never make that mistake again. Rachel is still looking down at the ground, asking questions about why cars get to park on top of buildings and other non-emotional, unrelated matters.
Soon we are in the MRI room and Rachel is scooting herself and her foot into position on the machine. The Technicians and nurses are connecting all of the tubes and wires and taping little red marbles to her foot. It is all so strangely familiar and routine. This is our ninth time in the last two years and Rachel has got it down to an art. I leave her behind, passing the very hallways that had my stomach tied up in thick knots less than two short years ago. I have since become more comfortable and less fearful, and most importantly, hopeful and confident with the results of these tests.
I'm on the elevator and then traveling through this giant world of Cancer. There is an absolute beauty in the faces of the patients who have been stripped of their health and their hair and their securities. They have nothing to hide. They are fighting for the very life that the rest of us take for granted every day. They are humble. We should all be humble. There are families there supporting one another and smiling and loving. There are big brothers wheeling their little brother around, trying to enjoy each others company despite the circumstances. My favorite thing about MD Anderson is that they cross out
Rachel Carter
It is a Victorious sight!
Before too long I am back with Rachel, the curtain is drawn and she is sleeping peacefully. Her lips are swollen from fluids and her face is a little pale but I am not worried. She always wakes up. Before I know it, we are down in the cafeteria eating chicken nuggets and fries from Chick-fil-A and chocolate cake for good measure! She is her sassy, happy, perky little self. She has brought her "teddy" on this day and "teddy" is going for a ride in the wheelchair.
Back in the sarcoma center in walks Dr. Lynn. We have learned that he is a subtly expressive man. If you look carefully, you can see a little glint in his eye from time to time, and you feel that he is happy to see you. My heart races until I hear the words, "everything looks good." A deep sigh of relief and a little "I told you so" from my conscience and we are discussing our next visit.
Another three months!! Worry free!! Normal Life!!! I am the luckiest person in the world. I get a glimpse at what could be and I am reminded of the deepest blessings I have received. We get to wake up, rush around the house, make lunches, meet the bus, clean up mess after mess, make meals, etc. etc. etc.
We are home.
We are happy.
Life is good!
