Round 3--(keep) FIGHT(ing)!!!

So it's chemo, Round 3--"ding ding-fight"--today.  We had the ever-pleasing opportunity of making the voyage into Atlanta to the main Emory Hospital since I was scheduled (I thought) to meet with my doctor (when I'm just getting infusions and bloodwork, I have the option of getting it done at a much more conveniently located Emory branch hospital--thus the ensuing frustration you're about to hear about).  This turned out to be an appointment with his PA--don't get me wrong, PAs are a great resource, and I think they definitely have their place, but unfortunately cancer therapy is not one of those places in my universe.  She was a great lady--super nice, relatively knowledgeable, had obviously read up on my case prior to walking in the exam room, and she did a bang-up physical exam; however, when I drive (or ride) an hour and a half to see my oncologist, I want to see my flipping oncologist.  RANT OVER.

We made the best of it: after getting my port accessed and getting some blood drawn, we got into the "doctor's" office pretty quickly and went through the usual interrogation/reporting process, good-naturedly harassed the nurse (a sweetly cynical middle-aged black lady with a fiery attitude that I just adore) that had originally told me I was going to lose my hair (since I cut it all off, and it's not even thinning), visited with a social worker (for the record, Uncle Junior, you're better at her job than she is), stopped by the little cafe to get some hot chocolate from one of the prettiest ladies I've ever seen in my life (she told me I was gorgeous too and didn't believe I was here for chemo *blushing ensued*), and then proceeded downstairs to the infusion center waiting area.  This area should just be labeled "chaos central" for convenience and accuracy.  I've had infusions at a number of different locations, and this one has the highest rate of traffic--by far.  That may have something to do with the fact that it's like a major university cancer research center or something--who knows.  I think I overheard one of the nurses mention they had seen almost 200 patients in a day for infusions.  Now, don't get me wrong--despite the chaos of the waiting area, this infusion center is one of the nicest with regard to convenience/comfort/cleanliness--you even get access to your own flatscreen tv at your little recliner.  They don't let you bring more than one person along with you--which may sound mean at first, but consider that I've been in some centers where there would be groups of like 5 to 7 people having lunch and kumbaya time while I was trying to stave off a supremely surly attitude, not toss my cookies (a situation not aided by the smells of random fried foods), and watch some Netflix in peace--so the lack of crowding is much-appreciated.  They've got this cool little lady that creeps around with a rad snack cart with all sorts of options to choose from, the nurses are super sweet, they don't let people bring in smelly foods, you have to use headphones if you want to watch your tv, and it's a generally peaceful (as peaceful as being electively poisoned can be) environment, all things considered.

Now the waiting room is an entirely different universe--despite being one little doorway apart--it's a whole other experience.  And one that I, personally, could live without (and not just because it's the chemo infusion waiting room).  The people you meet in there are the types you either love or hate to be around, and they've all got their own redeeming/or not-so-much characteristics.  I'm going to do this in the spirit of one of those "The Types of People You Meet in _________" sorts of articles, so here goes:

Type 1--The Know-it-All
This person (in my experience, usually a "she") is generally well-meaning, and looks at me as a "young" patient that obviously doesn't know anything.  So she takes it as an opportunity to inform me of all the things that I should be expecting through chemo--entirely negating the fact that every chemo is different for almost every patient, and not taking a breath long enough for me to mention that this isn't my first rodeo.  Most of her advice is not all that useful, but sometimes she mentions valuable tidbits of information or at least provides a laugh here and there.

Type 2--The Oversharer
This is the person that wants to tell you everything they've experienced--but in a "TMI" sort of style.  By that, I mean it's complete with detailed descriptions of bathroom habits, vomiting routines, and social encounters of all sorts.  For example, I don't want/need to know which body parts you enjoy no longer having to shave (although I may be secretly jealous).  Coincidentally, I seem to get the urge to pee every time I get around one of these.

Type 3--The TALKER
Now a lot of these types I'm listing may seem like they overlap, but I assure you that they are all they're very own distinct category.  This particular individual is looking to share their life story--with everyone--and depending on how long you're sitting in said waiting area, you may feel like you'd be able to accurately compose his/her complete biographical sketch before you get called back for your blood pressure check.  All this, despite the fact that you're actually sitting ACROSS the room from them and they aren't even directly addressing you.

Type 4--The Make You Feel Like an Ungrateful Bratty Little Whiner Type
This patient is wheeled into the infusion waiting room in a wheelchair, has lost all of their hair and has skin the color of printer paper, has ankles and feet so swollen they can't wear shoes yet has obviously lost a considerable proportion of their pre-cancer body weight, can barely muster the strength to hold their head up--but they're SMILING and greeting everyone they pass like they're having the greatest day ever.  Which prompts you to look down at your (at least in my case) nicely tanned skin, clothes you haven't fit into in years, shoes that you WALKED into the hospital in, and to run your fingers through the hair you still have (although you may not enjoy the fact that you chopped it off prematurely)--all while thanking God for the good fortune that He has bestowed upon you, praying for your fellow cancer warrior, and silently declaring that you're going to suck it up and stop being such a whiny little shit (which you won't--but you tell yourself you need to).  This person is an inspiration and you have to restrain the urge to fall into the creeper category by giving them a hug.  Which brings me to...

Type 5--The Creeper
This person also means well, but is prone to unprovoked acts of physical contact that make you a little uncomfortable--especially in a pool of potentially immunocompromised individuals.  Purell is a wonderful thing--as is the awkward stranger hug avoidance maneuver.  In addition to their urges to share their love with hugs, shoulder pats, and extended handshakes, they have a tendency to ask questions that just start to cross the border of being a little too personal.  Encounters with Type 5 also justify the sudden urge to urinate.

Type 6--The Fashionista/er
Now don't get me wrong--I don't roll into the hospital like I'm on a midnight Walmart adventure or anything, but some of these ladies and gentlemen make me feel a little self-conscious about my choice of apparel!  I had a great conversation today with some sweet ladies about their latest animal-print pant purchases at Chico's and the new line of sweaters out at Jones New York, salivated over another lady's Tory Burch flats, and saw a young (70-ish) man in a VERY stylish paisley-patterned button-down with matching belt, pants, and loafers today.  These folks usually have designer bags for their chemo-accessories--please keep in mind, I'm not judging, I'm JEALOUS!--while Chris is lugging my old backpack and I'm dragging my Vera Bradley blanket around like Linus on Peanuts.  And although I'm jealous beyond reason, this gives me something to do while I'm getting poisoned--as soon as I can get my computer out and start wishlisting on all the online shopping outlets.

Type 7--That Guy That Makes Me Miss My Uncles and Daddy
He's mad that he's at the hospital instead of sitting in the deer/duck blind or fishing than he is about actually getting chemo, yet he's making inappropriate jokes/flirting shamelessly with the young nurses and I want to be his newest best friend.  He's also dressed in either camo or sports team-based regalia, jeans, and boots and usually has his wife trailing after him lecturing him about doing/not doing something while he's complaining relentlessly about all this "new-fangled science-y doctor stuff" they're taking so long to do.

Please, keep in mind that I write this largely for my emotional release, your entertainment, and so that I can keep my family and friends updated on what's going on without being depressing and doctor-y sounding.  I write about all of these people in my characteristic, cynical tone, but please know that I deeply respect and admire each and every one of them for having the courage to fight this beast without losing themselves--because I speak from experience when I say that it's a constant struggle to do so, and I would say I've got it easy.  Cancer is a real-life monster, and anybody that is faced with the challenge of fighting it is a "300"-esque (you know, that movie about the Spartans where all the dudes distracted me from what was actually going on in the story) warrior in my mind.  All of my fellow Cancer Warriors--past and present, near to my heart and true strangers, Stage 1 to Stage 4--are in my prayers and I forever wish them/you all the best in health and happiness, and sincerely ask that you mention them to whomever your higher power of choice may be!

If you made it this far, thank you for reading, thank you for your thoughts/prayers if you happen to be of the practicing sort, and thank you for your unending support.  You may or may not know just how much it truly eases the journey.  Much love to all--except Eugene, of course.  He's off the Christmas list...because I don't plan on him being around then anyways ;-)