On Being a Patient Patient

Yes,  I'm talking about both the people and the "Puritanically coined" virtue. [sidenote 1: both patience and patients stem ultimately from the Latin word(s), "pati" and/or "patior" meaning "to suffer" or "forebear."] [sidenote 2: I like words.]

Last week I had the privilege and excrutiatingly painful experience of walking through the doors of McKinney Regional Cancer Center for the first and the last time as a patient. And I think that, for the first time, my mind grasped that we view some life-encounters quite differently when we are truly written into the narrative, unlike when we are merely readers of the story. Before, as much as I supported and loved Kevin, my husband, when he was enduring chemotherapy and radiation, I wasn't the patient. Don't misunderstand me, the life of a care-giver is truly anxiety-filled, among other things. But no matter how many knots I grew in my stomach, mine weren't the eyes that nervously counted the ceiling tiles in the Nuclear medicine chamber as the machines hum-whizzed back and forth to bring hoped-for results. My skin did not burn with the countless xrays of eventual healing. My veins did not traffic the poison that ironically, yet slowly, would bring new life. Kevin lived it. It was his story. I loved, but I watched. Last week, I looked at Kevin and smiled as we walked through the cancer center doors once again. Then we switched roles.

For anyone who has ever encountered the McKinney Regional Cancer Center, you know what I mean when I say, "It's family, and you're part of it." Almost every employee of MRCC knows my family, all of us who have entered, by our first names (with the exception of Dr. W who lovingly referrs to Kevin by his middle name, Von).  :)  When you walk through the strong, hand crafted, wooden double-doors, extensive collections of oils on canvas greet you to sit and relax. There is no "office furniture." While you wait, which is never for an extended amount of time, you rest on over-sized couches and chairs that hug your body. You are not called back to an examination room Your nurse comes out to meet you, to sit with you and then escorts you to your doctor's room. The exam room is pleasant, uncluttered and clean. Your nurse inquires of your daughter who has just begun college, asking about her by name. Your doctor asks you for a reference for a good "off-season" basketball program for his own daughter! You laugh, you smile, you share good news, desperate news, and you hug. As much as you dread having to be treated, you're glad to be helped by family. As you leave the center, you know they remember you in their prayers and frequently ask for you to remember them in yours. Family intercedes for one another.

This visit, which I classified as my first and my last as a cancer patient at MRCC, proved ceremonious. (Not knowing where to cast the blame, I will simply say that after having loved numerous cancer patients and victims for close to 30 years, MRCC was forced to close its doors this month.) Kevin and I walked the hallways one last time, relaxing with the art we have so come to know and love. We took our own photos, like we could ever forget what is locked away in the recesses of our memories. We hugged our "family" and took our medical records to hold them until our doctor and his nurses have found a place to light. Patience.

What I have gathered, in this span of just over three years with MRCC, is that I have learned grace and strength. I have received and given compassion. I have seen hope transferred through the eyes of my family. Yet I believe the greatest of all my lessons learned, is the patience you take with those you love. My memories flood... I studied patience as a young man held an elderly woman close to his chest, as if she were his grandma, wiping her brow with a cold rag, waiting for her bus transportation to take her back, undoubtedly, to an empty apartment. The young man, Shawn, was her radiologist; not her grandson. I listened to Nurse Marlene patiently reassure the frantic woman on the other end of the phone, who needed desperately to see her doctor. He will be unavailable for a short while, but here is what we can do for you in the meantime...  I breathed a sigh of relief as, patiently, Dr. Wyszynski took Kevin by his shoulders and said, "You're gonna' live, Von. Isn't that great news?" Love and Patience.

Our doctor, Dr. Whiz, as we lovingly call him, has provided a path for me "in the meantime." Until I see him again, which he confidently informed me would be in no more than three weeks, I am to gain strength, be hopeful and be thankful. My scans (PET, MRI, CT, full body) were clear. "Isn't that great news, Christine?" Now we wait (patiently) for treatment plans which will come with the next test results.  Be strong. Be hopeful. Be thankful. Be patient.

Romans 8:24b-28 "(If we already have something, we don't need to hope for it. But if we look forward to something we don't have yet, we must wait patiently and confidently.) The Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. Like when we don't know what God wants us to pray for. The Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words. And the Father already knows our hearts and He knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us in harmony with God's own will. We know that God causes all things to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them." NLT version