We’re all in the same boat here.

A boat that’s taking on water.

Some people are busy patching the holes. Some are preparing to board another ship. For others, the lighthouse on the horizon is slowly fading, and the shore is still a very long way off. At first, my routine was simple. Blood tests on Friday. Oncology clinic and chemotherapy on Monday. After my second round of chemo, however, everything became more complicated because my blood results kept coming back wrong. When the score reached 3:0 for cancer, we changed tactics. Now I go for blood tests at 6:45 in the morning.

I’m lucky. I live only about twenty minutes from the hospital. Most mornings, when I arrive, the waiting room lights aren’t even on yet and the number screens are still asleep. For a long time, I was usually the only person there. The last time, though, I met an older gentleman who wanted to talk. I’ve read everything. I’ve listened to countless stories. Even so, I still feel like a rookie in this world. The man had a full head of hair, and when he told me he only came in every three months, I assumed the worst was behind him and that he was only coming for routine check-ups.

“No,” he said. “Nothing is going to help me anymore. They gave me medication to take at home, and now I come here for tests and a chat with the doctor.”

I had no idea what to say. He told me how it all started. Severe back pain. Nausea. Loss of appetite. Eventually it turned out to be cancer. What kind of cancer, I don’t actually know. I forgot to ask. Online, everyone seems to know the exact name of their disease. The subtype. The mutation. The stage. Every detail. Maybe people need to name the thing they’re fighting. If someone steals my pen, it’s probably useful to know that it was Vendelín and not just some random person. There’s a chance we’ll find Vendelín. Maybe my pen will come back with nothing worse than an empty ink cartridge. Vendelín gets a slap on the wrist and life returns to normal.

Cancer doesn’t work like that.

Cancer is just cancer.

And chemotherapy is brutal.

Yes, there are different stages. Different treatments. Different outcomes. Some people need radiotherapy. Some only take tablets at home. Some respond well. Others don’t. But every single one of us is dealing with something difficult.

And so are the people who love us.

The gentleman started telling me about the people he’d met over the years in various waiting rooms.

“I don’t see most of them anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if they come at different times now… or if they don’t come anymore.”

After saying that, he fell silent.

It looked as though another wave of sadness was on its way.

Fortunately, my number flashed on the screen and I escaped to the blood collection room.

When I came back out, we said goodbye.

“Take care. Maybe I’ll see you again in three months.”

To be honest, I was relieved that our conversation had ended. It didn’t do me much good.

But I genuinely hope I see him again.

Old friends from the orange waiting room.

While I’m sitting there, I usually work on my laptop. I admit, though, that I still glance around at everyone from time to time. Still the youngest one here. The lady in the baseball cap who usually sits opposite the door isn’t here today.

Who still has their hair?

It’s difficult to describe the atmosphere. But you immediately know you’re not sitting in an ordinary doctor’s waiting room. It’s a mixture of uncertainty, fear, and sometimes resignation.

Mostly, though, it’s exhaustion.

For the first couple of months, I felt like I didn’t belong there. I walked quickly. I was still full of energy. Motivated. Determined. Whenever my number appeared, I’d practically teleport into the doctor’s office. I’ve never liked wasting time. Then my blood results failed three times in a row.

That got into my head.

Suddenly my legs felt heavier.

It’s a strange feeling.

As if my spirit is already sitting in the doctor’s office, but my body is still slowly dragging itself down the corridor. 🙂 Later I was introduced to something called chemo brain.

Fog ahead.

Fog behind.

Between that and the fatigue, my body and mind finally agreed on one thing:

Snail pace.

I try to tell myself there’s something positive about it. Maybe I’m living more in the present. Maybe I’m experiencing each moment more fully now that every moment seems to last forever. I felt something similar when my son learned to walk and suddenly refused to sit in his stroller. Every journey took ages. There was nothing I could do except slow down and look around. At the time, I appreciated that lesson.

This time, I’m fighting it.

I don’t want to slow down.

I keep looking for ways to maintain my pace.

Especially now, when I don’t know how much time I have.

Everyone talks about the incredible fatigue that comes with treatment. I kept telling myself it probably wouldn’t happen to me.

As long as I did everything right.

I said the same thing about my hair when it survived that first month.

The hair is gone now.

And lately, my eyelashes and eyebrows have started disappearing too.