You Could Not Leave This Room Ungrateful
There is one place in my life that will always affect my mental state in a positive way. No matter how challenging my current frame of mind is, I always leave here feeling as though I am the luckiest woman in the world, and that all of my problems are actually minimal.
That room is the waiting room of my radiation oncologist. I have been going to these rooms at least twice a year since having radiotherapy in 2002, when I had a brain tumour that was showing signs that it was about to activate and grow. How I feel in going to these rooms now is completely different to how I felt in 2002.
I then had a brain tumour and was getting all the ‘props’ made to have radiotherapy (I had to have a full head mask made and have it fitted. It’s imperative that they hit precisely the right place with any form of radiotherapy, but perhaps more so when it’s to the brain). It all seriously freaked me out — what if they got the mask measurements wrong and were a millimetre out and damaged my brain? However my doctors had told me that if I didn’t have the treatment, the tumour was likely to grow and this could cause irreversible problems.
Back in 2002 I found those radiation oncology rooms such a hard place to go to. I didn’t know what the radiotherapy treatment would be like: would it be painful? Would it work? Could it go wrong and cause other damage? These and so many other anxieties were racing around in my mind.
However, following that radiotherapy treatment my scan reports started to change and new words entered my radiation oncology appointments. Words like “your tumour has receded a millimetre. It is only a millimetre, but when in the brain this is like miles. And the fact that it is retreating is significant.”
Then in 2013 there was the extraordinary appointment where I was told “there is no longer any form of malignancy in your brain”. I found this news nothing short of extraordinary. I celebrated the fact that (I had thought) I no longer had a brain tumour.
However, what I didn’t take in or know back then, was that yes, the cancer part of the tumour had shrunk but the ‘pilocytic’ part of the tumour remained (it had always been a pilocytic brain tumour which meant that it was made of many cysts). Later those cysts would cause other issues for me. However the absolutely huge thing for me in 2013 was that there was no longer any form of malignancy in my brain.
I had had 9 years of MRI scans where every year we’d check whether the tumour had grown or changed. One of the few things that kept me calm with all those MRIs was repeating comforting scriptures to myself while the huge scanner vibrated loudly.
Psalm 139 verse 16 was the one that really spoke to my heart from when I was given it in 1994 at diagnosis:
“Your (God’s) eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
That God had seen me before birth and had known every single day of my life, gave me such reassurance. Therefore I concluded that my cancer diagnosis was not a suprise to God, as it had been to me and my family; God had it all under control and I ‘just’ had to trust him.
Trusting God to his word during all my sick years essentially saved me, in terms of how I dealt with my health challenges; it left me so strong internally. I will always be grateful to him for this.
Back to my radiation oncologist’s rooms. After my ‘no cancer’ scan occurred, my experience of these oncology rooms changed. I came to realise that I actually had something that any of the other people I saw there would do anything to have: no malignant cancer. I don’t believe that this was due to anything that is a credit to me; I do not believe that it was due to my strong faith, or anything else I did. I know of many people of incredible faith that didn’t win their battle with cancer. I was just one of the lucky ones.
As I went into an appointment in the oncology rooms at the end of 2020, I could see two people from behind. It was clear that it was a senior woman with a younger man, and I assumed that the older woman was having radiotherapy and the younger man was there to support her. However once they stood I saw that the young man was skeletal, bent over, and needed a walking frame to move. The elderly woman was his support person. That poor man struggled to walk into his appointment and it struck me powerfully how incredibly fortunate I am. I had a treasure that he, and any of the other patients in that room, would probably do anything for. Something far more valuable than money, a beautiful home, a high status car — all these things we can spend our lives striving for are completely meaningless when you’re given a cancer diagnosis and your life is on the line. The greatest thing that you can hope for is to survive.
I have had four brain bleeds in recent years which have stripped me of my short term memory and given me new challenges to deal with. However that sense of gratitude that hits me in the oncology waiting rooms is something I intend to carry with me for the rest of my life, whatever that may bring. I am so incredibly fortunate and I never want to forget it.
To be honest, I don’t believe that anyone, knowing what these rooms were, could leave this room ungrateful.
