I walked through the glass door with my heart in my throat. It is an automated response to this place. My pulse rate increases as I try to find an empty chair. Once a cancer patient, always a cancer patient. I am the only woman with hair today; thin though it is, it’s better than none. All the rest are bald or scarved. The husbands and friends sit and read magazines or look at their phones. The patients have sunken eyes that look up as I come through the door. We make eye contact and I smile. There are questions on their faces. Who am I? Why am I alone? Why do I have hair? Of course, we do not speak of any of these things. I sign in and confirm at least, that I am a patient, too.

I am called almost immediately. Yearly check-ups are quick business with the NP. The others are likely waiting for the doctor or chemo. I hate to leave them there with their tired bodies and traumatized spirits. Someone on the TV is talking about renovating a house. It’s the last thing any of these patients are interested in seeing. When you are in Cancerland you don’t think about your house…at all. Not even cleaning it. But the show is better than the news and it creates background noise that is neutral.

When you are waiting to see if treatment is working, or if your blood counts have gone up or down, or possibly get a life sentence, it is hard to think at all, much less about renovating your house. Words blur on magazine pages and your phone is full of happy people posting pictures of their vacations. It’s rather a lonely place to be, in this world but not really in it. Everyone else keeps moving forward, including the caregiver sitting next to you on their phone. I remember all this in an instant, as I walk away from the waiting room.

My NP is sweet. She looks to be 15 years old. I know this cannot be true, but she is super cute. Matter-of-fact, still smiling, bubbly in some ways. She asks me the usual questions. Any symptoms? Any changes in appetite? How am I sleeping? Any abdominal pain? Bloating? I answer no to all of them, except the sleeping one. I explain that I am grieving and why, and that sleeping is my preferred activity at the moment. She makes a note of it. Stress makes my risk for reoccurrence higher. In the same breath she assures me that since I am 19 years out from my cancer it would be rare. This brings some relief, though I already knew it. It is always good to hear a professional say it out loud.

My exam is quick since I no longer have insides. She gives me a clean bill of health and tells me to come back next year for my 20^TH Anniversary! I tell her I will be happy to do so. Then I walk out, back through the faces who are still waiting. I want to shout, but I don’t. I want them to know they might make it, too. But might is too big of a word. It doesn’t help so much when you are in survival mode. Instead, I say have a nice day, because it’s the only day they have.

In my car, my heart rate returns to normal. Another year. Another good check-up. Now the thoughts can go back to the rear of my mind for another 12 months. Still, every year, the visit to this office reminds me that every day is a gift. Live fully!