Returning

I went to the treatment clinic today for my 6-month post-transplant immunizations. The stem cell transplants wipe the slate clean, literally, and I have to re-immunize myself. The schedule for immunizations is 6 months out, 12 months, and then 18 months out.

Going back to the clinic is so hard, even for something as quick, easy, and relatively painless as 4 injections. So many memories are contained in that building; every emotional and psychological up and down along the seemingly endless journey to getting better is linked to this place. Better, as if ‘better’ was some destination and I knew the general direction but had no map or even a sense of distance to gauge anything… or everything.

My salvage treatment, the chemo that was administered after the recurrence was noted and before the transplants, took place around this time last year. Today, when I entered the actual treatment room, the lighting was very similar; the way it poured through the windows on the eastern side of the building, bouncing off the individual treatment chairs all lined up along the wall…  it was almost identical. I could feel my stomach turning with the memories that were percolating.

Time doesn’t seem to change inside the clinic itself. While waiting for my oncologist’s approval of my immunizations, I fumbled with some paperwork, but I was really observing, watching slyly life move around me. All the chairs lined up along the walls were full; each one held a patient. They added more chairs since my last visit. They even expanded the parking lot. If this was a restaurant, one might say, “Business is good”… in this case, the additional seating and parking just seem kinda sad. Some patients had visitors or family members. Some slept. Others stared at their phones, seeking a connection to the world that was, after all, a few paces away, but, as I recall, this proximity seemed like lightyears.

A barely audible playlist was turning out one feel-good oldie after another. The Beatles told me that the sun was almost here and had been an awful, lonely winter. The Beach Boys, singing in their beautiful harmonies, waxed poetic about how it’d be so nice to be older, and then they wouldn’t have to wait so long. Yes, that’s the type of world, so they told me, that they belonged in.

The nurses bless them all, check in on meds, and inform the patients about what they’re getting. They make small talk and tell jokes to keep things seem normal. I keep hearing them remind each patient that today’s the first day of spring.

There was a younger patient there, maybe a little younger than me. The majority of patients were older, so the younger one stood out. I bet I looked like they did; out of place, antsy, already keen on leaving but knowing the long treatment day and week are just beginning. They flipped through a worn-out, well-thumbed magazine, but I could tell, both by their empty gaze at the pages and being in that very same place myself, that their actions were just an empty gesture, a distraction, escapism.

Time may feel constant, or even stagnant, inside the clinic, but it is moving forward. I didn’t recognize anyone except for the nurses, and though I don’t know, I like to think that they, too, are resuming something that resembles a life. I like to think that they finally arrived at ‘better,’ even if, like my journey, they had to stop, ask for directions, change a flat tire, take a few detours, get lost again… Even if, like my journey, they are still en route, they can at least see the city lights on the horizon.