There was a warm floral pattern on the walls. Ruffled curtains adorned the windows. Lovely pictures hung in conspicuous places. The neutral beige recliner looked oversized, but comfortable in the space. The room was designed as a homey environment, but the sterile white tile floors, shining in the overhead florescent lights, shattered the illusion. I had to give them credit for trying. I had seen chemo labs that were a lot less cozy in the hospital. At least this outpatient facility made an effort to disguise its purpose.

However, the elephant in the room could not be ignored. What living room needs 8 recliners set in a kumbaya circle? Each with its own IV pole? A dead giveaway that this was NOT a homey cozy living room. The smell of disinfectant, the lovely nurses’ station in the corner, the glass refrigerator full of bags and bags of chemicals…not your grandma’s kitchen.

On my first day, this place was the scariest place I had ever been. They missed my port, pumping chemicals into my shoulder tissue for some time before I couldn’t take the pain any longer. I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to hurt…it was my first-time getting poison. My meltdown that day was monumental. So much so, I had to be moved to another room so as not to upset the others chair-sitters.

But this wasn’t my first day. It was my last. And in all those months between first and last, I had gone from being the newbie with hair who cried with every needle stick, to the experienced bald veteran in the room. This was my day. I got to wear the much-coveted elephant scarf for my entire six hours in the chair. This little guy told anyone who came in the door it was my last treatment. (Maybe the elephant in the room wasn’t so bad after all!) Other patients congratulated me as they came and went for their poison doses. All of them wondering if they would ever get to wear the scarf…just as I used to wonder.

My sunken eyes, without lashes or brows, smiled at the fact I had made it this far. My bruises were minimal by this time. I had adjusted to the trauma of Cancerland. My chair was a beacon of hope that day, for all those longing to be declared “cancer free.” I got to ring the brass bell as I walked out the door to applause. Somewhere an angel got his wings, and I couldn’t be happier.

I know that many of those did not make it to their day of hope. It’s the nature of Cancerland to acknowledge that not everyone makes it to their last day of treatment. Every time I went, it seemed there was an empty chair that wasn’t there the time before. An unspoken sorrow swathed our ‘living room’ without questions. It was too painful to ask. It was too much to know. Instead, the focus was on the one with the scarf. The one who held the hope for the day.

My day of hope was January 2, 2007. I am a walking miracle. I know this to be true because I beat the odds of those with ovarian and uterine cancer. Only 1 in 10,000 discover this type of cancer early enough to survive it. I am that 1. I have lost many of the friends I made during that time. My support group leader died when her cancer returned, and the support group died with her. But there is something about surviving which allows me to carry them with me. Not in a sad way, but more like living fully for them, since they are not here to do it themselves. Like the lone survivor of a battle who carries their fellow comrades in memories.

I haven’t been back to my chemo living room. It is not a place for nostalgia. In fact, it is a place to be avoided. I feel sure it is set up much differently now, since Covid. I do wonder about my chemo nurse, Tina and the others who took such good care of me. I try to live to make them proud. They were angels sent from God. And though the décor didn’t fool anyone for long, I appreciate the peace it conveyed that someone, somewhere wanted me to not be afraid. And wanted it enough that they took the time to try to make the room more inviting.

I am cancer free for 17 years now, which amazes me still. My doctor says, he keeps me coming back each year to remind the staff that some people do survive. I am happy to be the hope others need, be it patients or medical personnel.  Happy to be Alive Day!