A Day At The Outpatients
All walks of life walk here. Old. Young. Professionals. Patients. Weary. Peaceful. Sick. Healthy.
And there’s us.
Foreigners, but not really. One of us carries a bag of sustenance for the waiting. The other carries a cane and walks with difficulty.
One of us sits with their head hanging, eyes closed, the fatigue of the treatment wearing every ounce of patience thin to the bone marrow. The other sits and watches the people that come and go.
There’s the relay of ambulance drivers in and out of the lifts, some arriving and leaving with confidence, some with caution. Some of them are familiar- daily trips for ourselves to the hospital brings reconnaissance to faces, and our most favoured set appears at reception with a patient. A glance around the waiting room and they glance upon us- a generous smile brings them over to say hello, and a virtual ray of sunshine pools at the space we’re sitting.
Mostly the drivers are bringing the day-patients for the oncology ward, people lying on stretchers in visible pain, and I can’t help but question “is it worth it?”
The staff, disguised but transparent in their white coats, either with green or orange collars denoting their status. It’s lunch time at the moment, and they are up and down the elevators with lunch boxes and fresh lipstick, free of the uniform. The male doctors drift in and out of their offices calling for appointments, their long lab coats and self important superiority vaguely apologetic for the delay, their female counterparts less so; they seem more… maternal. As life tends to be.
The elevators themselves ding and beep and slide relentlessly. Couples arrive to reception desk. Like us, they’re there for check-ups with the doctors. It feels like – but not necessarily- that there are more men looking rag-tag and forlorn with a chemotherapy pallor: shoulders hunched over, clothes draped over skeletal frames. Some look similar to us: a walking disability, a head scar shaped like a sickle, a partner carrying bags and files and an air of confident good health. The partners, those carrying files and bags of sustenance, are dressed differently: I can’t help but take note of the delicate French shoes, the smart blazer, the thick gold bracelet resting on the delicate wrist of the upper classes, or young men clad in baggies and rock concert tee-shirts, tattoos up their arms, hair in a neat ponytail.
It’s the third occasion I’ve had to sit and watch people come and go through the day ward and consultation hall. I’m still new to it. I long for the days before this moment. I long for this not to be our existence. I long for these waiting times to be over.
But – and this harsh reality sinks in only later- will these waiting times only be over when it’s all over?
The sadness and grey pallor that seems to lie like a fog over the medical centre is merely a moment in the day to day, and yet this is a reality I need to accept.
Numbers:
114 days since the first emergency room trip.
84 since the glial cell diagnosis.
30 radiation blasts.
46 days of chemotherapy pills. Fasting days.
I’m not sure if you know how much I appreciate you reading these missives. The word vomit and my attempt at poetry- I use the space for my creative writings, which are remedial and I suspect could probably remain private, and I leave them here for vanity’s sake I suppose. But they don’t really leave you with real factual content as to where we are with this trip we’re on, so following is a brief (maybe…. Can’t guarantee it) matter-of-fact rundown of where we currently are.
Anton has finished up with the first leg of oncology. This was the 46 days of chemotherapy pills (taken orally, having fasted), and 30 trips to the radiation rooms where radioactive beams were zapped to where the tumour was removed.
Side effects were nominal: we decided to shave his hair as it was falling out in patches where the radiation was aimed at. Fatigue was the biggest factor, and he’s become one with our loung sleeper couch and television (and has discovered the benefits of afternoon naps). He eats everything I serve him, albeit doesn’t appreciate spicy stuff.
The hemiplegia is noticeably better than 6 weeks ago, he relies only on a cane around the house and we use a walking frame for the shops. Unfortunately I have nothing to gauge or compare our situation with. I have questioned daily – as we glide down the corridors in the oncology centre- “why does it feel like we’re not progressing?” Are we literally at rock bottom that the changes I want to see are so tiny that I can’t see them in the bigger picture?
But, this is cancer. I doubt anybody gets through this without feeling some level of anger and resentment.
Anton is taking a break from treatment- it’s prescribed – and by the time we are in South Africa in a month’s time he will start up with his chemotherapy treatment again. We have decided to spend our full 8 weeks of school summer vacation in the wintery climes of South Africa. The chemotherapy will remain an oral treatment, although the dosage will double for the first month, and then increase again after that. We’ve committed to our oncology team that we will have regular blood tests and follow up with a doctor as we go about. The treatment will continue for 6 months, but we won’t know until September following an MRI as to how effective the radiotherapy has been, and how the tumour is looking. Given the aggressive nature of the glial cells that lead to glioblastoma’s, I am leaving a relative safety net of expectations, those being worse case scenario stuff. I’m not sure my attitude is the best outlook, but shirtballs-imagine I believed this will all just go away and it doesn’t?
As far as other aspects of medical care goes, we have put Anton through various ophthalmology check ups: we have had his peripheral vision tested following the surgery and while there is a void there, it certainly won’t handicap him in the future. (He will be able to drive once the oncology is over). His eye-physio doc has also confirmed that his eyesight is still strong. A speech therapist has assessed his cognitive function which is also a cause for concern following brain surgery and he’s cleared there as well (albeit could do with some stimulation and exercise as much as he does with the kiné).
Our home comforts mean we often are happiest at home, and welcome visitors for a chat often (thank you to everyone who does come out to see us). That said, I took Anton to his office for their annual summer BBQ and it was a pleasure to watch his old self come out. If it was up to me, I would definitely encourage a return to work for him as the mental benefits would outweigh the fatigue he would suffer, but I’m not a doctor am I? That said, he sleeps well enough and is more than happy to just relax so if it works for him, it’s best to just let it be.
On a different note, I’m thoroughly enjoying being on leave during summer. Long evenings and extra daylight hours have got my full appreciation. On my terrace, the snails have eaten their way through everything in a pot 😡 but the jasmine that was knocked back by minus 15 degrees of snow 3 years ago had found a new lease on life. Do I take that as a sign?
Also, I passed the theory test for a French drivers license- the first step in gaining driving independence. This is by far my biggest achievement in the last 5 years 😆. Okay- maybe integrating myself in the French work space as a chef is an equally enormous achievement but knowing how much this driving has weighed on me especially recently, I felt it necessary to toast my success with a bottle of bubbles.
As usual, I share this in haste as hubby has requested I post an update and I always welcome an excuse to scribble. He is definitely looking forward to the trip to see family. I’ll try encourage him to share photos from our travels.
That’s me for now. Days of admin and planning lie ahead. As much of a light load it is, it’s also not easy. I am looking forward to seeing as many people as I can back in South Africa.
Sending all my love and wishes,
Me.
Xx
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 