You find yourself there one morning in the radiation oncology department, dressed in your jeans and a johnny. Some part of you has a tumor that may respond well to radiation - may stop growing, even begin to shrink or may be made less painful and more tolerable.
The first day, the nurse will lay you down on the table, work the accelerator using your x-rays and bone scan as a map to pinpoint where the tumor is so as to direct the radiation to the right place. You have to lie very still and position is important. Once the exact position has been established, points are drawn on your skin with a marker and out comes the needle and the bottle of India ink. The points (three or four of them) are tattooed onto your skin. It’s really rather ingenious - these are small, unobtrusive marks that won’t wash away and which will tell the nurse how to precisely line up the machine for your radiation treatments over the following weeks.
You are assigned a time to come in - every week day.
The next day, you’ll probably find the waiting room has several people in it. Most of them are older and some are fairly frail. You may discover (even though you really did know it) that you are not the only woman without hair and that at least one woman is considerably less shy and more courageous that you are about showing her noggin. And you might feel a little silly because you were just thinking how hot and inconvenient your hat was and wishing you had the nerve to dispense with it - at least around people who are up the same creek!
A curious intimacy happens in the radiation oncology waiting room. As treatment progresses and the days go by, you get to know some of these people who wait with you every morning. You will learn what brought them there and sometimes the specifics of their treatment, You might find out that Mr. T likes broccoli but hates gingerbread and that Ms C. has beautiful grandchildren and funny-looking cats. Mr. S. is feeling hopeful because, between chemotherapy and radiation, the tumor in his throat has all but disappeared. For some though, this is a more or less palliative thing; they have been here before and, if they’re lucky, may be here again in the future.
Over all, there is a very comradely feeling. Whatever your backgrounds are, however diverse your origins, colors and beliefs, you are all here for the same reason. Despite differing levels of education or success, for a little while every day, you are brothers and sisters of experience. You come in every morning, and most sincerely wish each other well before you go to spend your few minutes on the table.
Eventually, the treatment reaches its end. You have had as much radiation to the affected part as is needed (or as your body can tolerate). You don’t have to get up early in the morning any more to rush to the hospital before you can do anything else with your day.
That last day is hard. Your companions in the waiting room already know because you all count down each other’s days as a matter of course. There will be hugs, maybe a few tears, and most heartfelt wishes for each other’s ongoing well being. Being the time of year it is, there will probably be some holiday wishes sprinkled in there too.
And then you will go home and likely never see each other again.
But in your heart, there’s a room where you hang a picture of each of them. And every so often, you go and look at the pictures and say prayers.
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I wish you well. You and all those you’ve come to know as you undergo your treatment. 
I wish you a very happy holiday and think bald is beautiful. Keep smiling every hour is worth it. 
What a gem of an essay. Thank you for sharing this view. And good wishes for all who are or have been or will be “in the same boat.”
Thank you, Robbyn, for a little glimpse into your daily battle. I wish you, and all your fellow warriors, a wonderful Christmas season. {{{hugs}}}
Oh boy I know that feeling of friendship and closeness from Mr Mog having 7 weeks of radiotherapy last year.From a scared first day it turned into a close knit group, as some left treatment finished others started. The last day we had celebratory breakfast there and wondered why we thought it would be a long hard slog. Mr Mog is doing great thanks to the staff. I knit many many pairs of socks while sitting with him:)
Sending greetings for Yule and glad you have finished treatment
what a gem you’ve written-
everyone in that waiting room is special to someone, and you are most special to so very many of us-
many big texas hugs- stay happy-
Chemo is lonelier. No one talks, no one shares. You make me look forward to radiation. Bless you and yours.
Oh, honey. This hits particularly close to home today, as my sweetie, Shoryl, had chemo for the first time on Wednesday. It’s a scary, lonely battle most of the time, but it’s it wonderful when something shines through the darkness?
We don’t know if she’ll ever need radiation therapy, but I’ll remember this, and try to remember to come out of my shell if it happens.
wow, what a great post. Comeraderie at its finest. Wishing you all the best for today and all the days after today,
What a beautiful post! Like you. Thank you for sharing.
I hope the holiday brings a great big smile to your face!
What a beautiful post. I was recently diagnosed with ovarian cancer and begin chemo on the 29th. I have no idea if there will be any camaraderie there but I am sure memories will be made, good and bad. I hope I can handle treatment with the grace and strength that you have.
Thank you for providing such an insight into a struggle that most have no idea occurs every day. This gives me an entirely new group of people to admire. Thank you for fighting so hard, and for sharing your fight.
What a beautiful post, Robyyn. Thank you for sharing. May your Christmas be merry, and your new year be filled with blessings.
